Two Directions
by kellyofsmeg
Summary: March 1985. A hunter by the name of Logan needs backup on a hunt, and Bill Harvelle knows just the man for the job. John Winchester, taking on a case that hits close to home for the young father and seen through the eyes of another hunter. John &OC hunt.
1. Chapter 1

**Two Directions**

**by kellyofsmeg**

**Summary: March 1985. A hunter by the name of Logan needs backup on a hunt, and Bill Harvelle knows just the man for the job. John Winchester, taking on a case that hits close to home for the young father and seen through the eyes of another hunter. John &OC hunt.**

**...**

I'll be the first to admit that us hunters are pretty difficult so far as people go. We're anti-social, cantankerous, paranoid nomads—full of blood lust, piss and vinegar, and probably a few too many drinks. We've seen things that would make most people voluntarily lock themselves in the loony bin for the rest of their naturals, but not us—we keep diving headfirst into every death-defying monster-hunt we can find. We go _looking _for ghosts and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night. That's how we get our kicks and settle a score. Along the way we might even be able to save a few lives, too, even if we're stupid enough to risk our own.

No, we're not crazy. Most of us. At least not entirely. Yet. Most of us don't live long enough to go completely cuckoo's nest. We could all probably do with some anger management sessions, but we know better. We need that fuel to keep the fire going. Every hunter knows that.

And every hunter worth his rock salt also knows when to admit their slingshot's not big enough to take on Goliath this time and need some backup. It takes a lot to swallow the pride and most hunters don't leave enough room after their victories for a helping of humble pie. They'd literally rather face the mouth of the beast than admit they've bit off more than they can chew. As for me, well, I may be stupid, but I ain't suicidal.

So I drag my ass over to a payphone, light up a cigarette and place a call to Elgin, Nebraska. The Roadhouse. Sort of the hub for hunters. There's always a handful of 'em in between gigs that are just itching for the next thing to kill. In the meantime they sit around and overwork their livers, getting their fixes from re-telling past glories to anyone who'll listen.

The phone picks up after three rings. "Harvelle's Roadhouse. What can I do for you?"

"Hi, Bill. It's Logan," I say into the mouthpiece. I listen in the background. The music's loud and there's plenty of voices in the background. Should be no problem finding someone who's up for the job. "I'm in Grand Junction. Could use some backup."

"Good to hear from you, Logan," Bill says. He's shouting over the noise in his bar. "What're you after?"

"Lamia. In fact, I'm pretty damn sure there's three of them. In the last two months, six kids have gone missing in Aspen and Steamboat Springs, stolen right outta their beds. All of them over the last two new moons. Next one's tomorrow tonight, and I've traced the Lamias here. I've managed to locate the nest, too."

"Lamia, huh?" says Bill, sounding surprised. I hear the glug-glug-glug sound of him pouring a drink. "You sure?"

"Positive," I say. "Eliminated all other possibilities. So that's what it's gotta be."

"I've never heard of one of those things on this side of the Atlantic. I hear they don't go down easy, either," Bill says.

"Only reason I'm callin' for a sidekick. Got anyone you think will be up to the job?" I ask. "Ideally someone who won't screw up and get me killed?"

Bill pauses a moment while he thinks. "I've got a friend of mine coming through tonight. Just bridled a kelpie in Louisiana. Good chance he'll be up for the job," I hear Bill make an exchange with a customer and he's back on the line. "Now he's only been in the game for a year and a half or so—"

"No way. I don't need no greenhorn, Bill," I grumble. "I ain't got time for any hunter still's got his training wheels on."

"You don't know this guy. He hit the ground running. What he lacks in experience, he makes up for with brute force and a can-do attitude. He figures it out as he goes, never let anything get away with a pulse far as I know. Hard to tell the difference between him and someone who's been hunting for thirty years, 'cept that he moves a hell of a lot faster. He's dedicated to the job. Focused, driven, intense—some have said obsessed," Bill chuckled. I can tell he agrees. "Plus, he's a good man. Decent. Got what you might call moral courage. No one else I'd rather have in my corner with my back against the wall."

I feel my skepticism take turns peaking and plummeting. I know that when something, or in this case, someone, sounds too good to be true, it usually is. I also trust Bill, but I ain't ever known anyone who picked up the trade as fast as he claims this guy has.

Maybe Bill can tell I'm still on the fence, because he says, "Plus, you two have a lot in common. He used to turn wrenches, too. Just wait till you see his car. She's a beauty. '67 Chevy Impala. And did I mention he served in Nam? Marine, same as you."

"Not to mention he's pretty easy on the eyes," I can hear the teasing sound in Ellen's voice as she steals the phone from her husband. "He's one of those tall, dark and handsome types."

"Well, ain't that the cherry on top," I say, letting out a lungful of smoke in a long stream, watching it float up above my head.

"Sorry, Logan," I hear Ellen say, can hear her swatting Bill's hand away from the phone. "I wasn't sure whether Bill was trying to set you up with a hunting partner or a blind date."

"Is this guy as good as Bill says, El?" I ask, flicking the ash off the end of my smoke. "Answer me honest, now."

"Only second to you of course, sweetheart," Ellen says. I hear Bill take the phone from his wife and tell her if she's gonna flirt, do it with the paying customers.

"So?" Bill demands, back on the line. "You sold yet, or do you want me to dispatch one of the half-assed neutralized yahoos I've got here?" a muffled, "No offense, Jed." Then, "Like I was saying before, this guy's good. Like he's been hunting his whole life."

"He know anything about Lamia?" I ask. Mission intel is critical.

"Wouldn't be surprised. He's always researching something or other. Anyone would think he's a scholar. Always got his nose in some book of lore or other, taking notes in his hunting journal," Bill says. "If not, he'll know everything before he gets there, and you can count on that."

"Just one more thing I wanna know," I say, sucking in on my lip. "What's this bastard's name?"

I can hear a smile in Bill's voice when he says, "John Winchester."

"Huh," I say. Like the gunmaker. Gotta be a good omen. I think. "You sure he'll take the case? I can't do with no maybe. I need someone you know'll commit."

"John's never backed down from a case that I've heard of," says Bill. "Plus, I think he'll have a vested interest in this one."

I don't ask why that is. Don't much care, so long as he can help get the job done. "Tell him to meet me in Grand Rapids, the parking lot at the Sleep EZ motel off Main Street at 1200 hours tomorrow."

"Don't be surprised if he's there at the crack of dawn," Bill laughs.

I'm skeptical again. "It's a ten hour drive."

"You don't know John like I do," says Bill. "Just try to keep up with him, okay, Logan? Don't let him run you ragged."

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter and roll my eyes. Ain't no amateur hunter gonna give me the run around, even if he is a fellow wrench-monkey Jarhead. "This guy'd better be as good as you say he is, or I'm coming for you, Harvelle—alive or dead."

"I won't lay out the salt lines just yet," says Bill. I can tell he's smirking. "You'll thank me later."

"We'll see. Say, Bill? You and Ellen had that baby yet?"

"Nope. El's not due till early April," Bill says. "We can't wait."

I can hear real happiness in my friend's voice-something I don't hear often in a hunter, so I hope I sound sincere when I say, "Congratulations, Bill. That's great. I'll see you soon. I hope."

Bill laughs. "Don't worry-you're in good hands. I'll see you soon, my friend."

"You'd better," I say and hang up the phone. I still feel like I might've just placed my money on a Thoroughbred that's actually a mule painted black with charcoal. No way can anyone be in the game for a year and already have people talkin' like they're the genuine article. Needless to say, I'm looking forward to meeting John Winchester and find out for myself just how good he is. Or isn't.

Anyway, I got all sorts to do before the big showdown tomorrow night. I put on my suit and badge and run a few more checkups with the police. They know the same as before: diddly squat. Back to the motel. I clean my weapons, practice throwing knives into my target rest, eat a can of baked beans for dinner and pass out in front of the TV with a six pack and _The A-Team._

_..._

A pounding on the door of my room loud enough to wake the dead jolts me out of bed. I immediately grab my Bowie knife, still at least half-asleep, and stagger over to the door. I yank back the curtains, see a man standing there. Daylight's barely starting to peak out. Can't be later than 0700. Knife still held tight in my fist, I open the door, but keep the deadbolt in place. I stare at the stranger, suspicious, and wait for him to have the first word.

"You Logan?" the man asks, squinting at me through the crack in the door. No, not squinting, I decide. Glaring.

"Maybe. Depends on who you are," I say back.

"Name's Winchester. Bill Harvelle told me you're working a case and need some backup."

I blink hard. "Yeah, I do. Wasn't expecting you quite yet," I say. Bill was right about the son of a bitch showing up at sunrise. I wonder what else he's right about. "I don't recall tellin' Bill my room number. And I know the office ain't open yet."

"Plan was to knock on every door till I found yours," Winchester says. "But then I saw the Chevy pickup parked out front, I took a guess and got lucky."

"Well, I'm sure the other tenants are very grateful," I slide back the deadbolt. "Come on in, then." Winchester stays rooted outside. "What? You waitin' for a special invitation or something?"

"You've never met me before," says Winchester, getting a silver flask out of his jacket pocket. There's rosary beads wrapped around the neck. Holy water. "How do you know I am who I say I am?"

"Mostly cos you knew I had Bill send for you," I say. And I thought_ I _was paranoid. I know there's things like shapeshifters and demons that can go bodysnatching, but it seems like this is the guy's version of a handshake. Winchester takes a long swig of the holy water. Next I watch as he rolls up his sleeve, takes a silver knife and cuts his forearm, not even flinching.

"Now you," says Winchester, rolling his sleeve back down. I notice then that he's a big guy—fills up the doorway. Definitely stands proud like a Marine. He's tall, and bulky in a way that says he's kept up his boot camp training exercises. Good. I don't need no spaghetti-armed maggot.

I decide to consent to proving I'm human. Seems easier. I take a swig from my own jug of holy water, gargle with it a bit. Then I pull my silver knife from my belt and cut my arm. Winchester nods. He doesn't seem any more accommodating, but at least he's not looking at me like I could potentially be the antichrist anymore.

Winchester finally steps into the room. I close and bolt the door behind him and redo the salt line disturbed by the door opening and closing. "You ever hunt a Lamia before, Green?"

"I've read lore," Winchester says. I can tell by his tone he doesn't much like being called a rookie. "I know they're not usually found outside of Greece."

"Well, we've got three of them here by my estimation," I say, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "You know how to kill 'em?"

In a flash, Winchester pulls a different silver knife from his belt. "Blessed by a priest. I've got rock salt and rosemary in my car, too."

"You managed to find a priest to bless that knife on your little road trip?"

Winchester just smirks in response.

I don't care to pry. He could've got it from a claw machine for all I care, so long as it's the real thing. I've already got my blessed knife, too, and I'm glad we don't have to worry about sharing weapons. "Luckily for us, these Lamia don't seem to be the sort who're into turning into beautiful women and luring men into forests to go all vamp on us."

"No. They're just into kidnapping and eating kids, right?" says Winchester with a poker face.

I go for the case folders. "Six so far in this state. I've noticed patterns in other states as well," Winchester grabs for the case, flips through the reports. "Looks like the Lamia change their feeding grounds every few months. Probably 'cos they're afraid of hunters catching on. They're getting more reckless; this is the most kids that've ever been nabbed in one state. But I made the connection. All the kids went missing when it was a new moon. Probably cos these things like to operate in total darkness. Picked up on the case when I was passing through Aspen a couple months back and heard an amber alert on the radio for these three missing kids. Did some poking around, and decided it had to be Lamia."

Winchester studies the face of each missing kid. "And you think there's three of them because the kids have all gone missing in threes?"

"Bingo. Lore says one per customer. So unless they've changed things up after leaving Greece..."

"You don't think they're the three sisters, do you?" Winchester looks up. "Meroe, Panthia and Pamphylia?"

I gotta admit—I'm impressed now. Winchester really has done his research. "Yeah. That's exactly what I'm thinkin'. But look at this," I go for another folder. "These are preschool and elementary school teachers from across the country."

"They're all the same people," Winchester says after a couple of seconds of scanning their faces.

"Yup. That already makes you smarter than the police. Same women, just with different names and hair colors. Maybe some Botox and plastic surgery," I say. "They can change components of their features. Their current aliases are as the Hayes sisters—Alison, Sheri and Genine. Looks like they take jobs where they can get close to the kids and decide which to single out. They seem to work a lot in families. Saves the hassle of having to break into three separate houses."

"Any other patterns to the kids they pick?"

"Families with single mothers ideally, or families with fathers that work nights. Makes it easier to nab the kids if they only have to deal with mom, I guess," I shrug. "Never houses with dogs or security systems, either. For obvious reasons."

"Bill said you have an idea where the nest is," Winchester says. I can see this real intense look in his eyes that says he wants these things dead just as much as I do. Again—good. Best to hunt with someone who's got a fire in their belly.

"Yeah," I drag out my map of Colorado, spread it out across the bed, jabbing at places on the map. "Aspen and Steamboat Springs are the cities that've been hit so far. I know these things like caves, so let's just say I've been going on a lot of hikes lately. Other day I found human remains in one of the outlying caves at Manitou Springs. Bones weren't full-grown. Six skulls total, evidence left behind of their ritual ceremonies—"

"How do you know they're gonna hit Grand Junction next?" Winchester interrupts.

"'Cos I was able to track the bitches back here," I say, turning to the next page in the folder. "One's working as substitute art teacher at the elementary school, one at a preschool, and one's a nanny to a few kids—single mom by the name of Monica Ward. Husband died of brain cancer four months ago, left her with three kids, two boys and a girl, also a heap of medical bills. She's been working two jobs since her husband died to make ends meet. I think it's most likely her kids are the ones that'll go missing—nice and convenient. The baby boy stays home with the nanny. He's too young for daycare. The toddler goes to the daycare where the other sister works. The oldest kid goes to the elementary school with the third sister. They're positioned to grab them all in one clean swoop. By the time mom gets home from work, the kids and nanny will be long gone."

"Then we'll have a stake-out," Winchester says. He's already going for the door by the time I look up from the case file.

"Hold your horses," I say, looking down at my watch. 7:10. Can't remember the last time I was up this early. "The mom doesn't even leave for work till eight. Think we can grab some breakfast first?"

"Fine," Winchester says, but he doesn't sound at all happy about it.

Tough. I ain't starting no monster hunt stakeout without my flapjacks.

TBC

...

AN: I keep saying this will be my last fic before I go on hiatus (officially, as of 2/5/14) but I keep finding a bit more time and motivation to get my WIP's done. And I've been wanting to finish this story for awhile now. I thought it'd be fun to see John from someone else's POV, and I've never actually written a case before. So this is exciting!:D

The monsters John and Logan are hunting, Lamias, are something I found when trying to research a monster Supernatural _hasn't _killed yet. But then I watched _Weekend at Bobby's, _and remembered Sam and Dean have actually fought a Lamia. But it was mostly off-screen, so I figured it wasn't a monster that was already done too death.

I may have mentioned before that I love using irony and foreshadowing. I just had to have Bill Harvelle talk John up, considering what happened with their hunt...

I also have a John Winchester fanvid under the same name as this story. You can check it out through a link in my profile page if you're interested :)

This story will probably be 4 or 5 chapters. I'm almost done with the ending, I'll post more soon. In the meantime, reviews are awesome. I like knowing someone's reading my stuff, and hopefully enjoying... ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**...**

We leave the motel room and Winchester drives. I tell him my ride's running on fumes, when really I just want to see his '67 Impala in action. Bill was right—she's a beauty. Winchester says she's got a V8 327 4 barrel engine, 275 horsepower, three speed auto. I can tell it's his pride and joy. Great upkeep, pristine paint job, and an engine that purrs. I ask him what he wants for it. He just laughs and fixes me with a stare when he sees I'm serious, with a look that says she's not for sale, ask again and I'll kill you. Damn.

We go to a greasy spoon diner. The waitress ain't much to look at, but the food's decent enough. I order a short stack, bacon and eggs. Winchester just gets a black coffee and reads through the case files I've already memorized.

"That all you gonna get?" I ask him as I smother my flapjacks in butter and then drown them in maple syrup.

"I'm not hungry," Winchester says.

"You sure?" I say, cutting out a wedge of the short stack and spearing them with my fork. "Got a big day ahead of us."

"I never eat breakfast," says Winchester. "Always just have a coffee."

"Huh," I say, wondering what the man has against what, in my opinion, is the greatest meal of the day. "But you _do _plan on eating something today, right? It's bad enough you drove all night and haven't slept in days by the looks of you. I don't need you going all low-blood sugar on me and fainting."

Winchester smirks at the thought of anyone thinking he's the fainting type. "I don't eat much on a hunt. Digestion slows the body down."

Somehow, I'm not surprised. If he was in Hollywood, Winchester would probably be one of those De Niro type method actors.

I consider Winchester now, as he's busy reading and I can get away with staring for a few seconds at a time. He's young. Even younger than I imagined he'd be. Can't be older than thirty. I can see the chain of his dog tags visible under his shirt collar, as if I needed any more proof that he's served. His eyes have the haunted look of a man who's seen combat in close-quarters. And man, the things we saw in Nam...couple that with what we've seen on hunts and it's a miracle we're not sitting in a corner rocking back and forth. Something I've found's the same with being a solider in Nam and a hunter is in both cases the public is largely ignorant and unappreciative of the services we provide. We're not asking for a trophy or anything, but I guess it'd be nice to get thanked every now and then.

I wanna know how Winchester got into the life, but I know better than to ask. There's typically one rule to hunter etiquette, and that's not to ask a fellow hunter how they got started unless you're friendly enough with them that you'll accept an offered flask without sniffing it first.

Most of us have learned not to talk about the war with civilians. For years it was as taboo as telling people what we do as hunters unless strictly necessary. We hardly got warm homecomings, just a bunch of hostility or people who wanted to bury their heads in the sand and pretended we'd been on vacation in Hawaii, and not in the jungles of Southeast Asia fighting a war the public was dead-set against and were looking for something to blame. The miracle of technology—bringing the war into American living rooms, broadcasted on the Zenith with the whole family plus the dog gathered around, hearing the news that sells. Which usually didn't paint us in a favorable light. I boxed up my uniform and stopped talking about Nam when I got home to avoid the abuse.

But it's different talking to someone who was there, who knows the hell we went through. There's a mutual understanding like you can't find anywhere else. I wanna try to figure out if this guy's over the hill yet or not. He looks young. At least seven to ten years younger than me. I'll bet anything he got there the tail end of the war and was sent home in March of '73 with most of the troops. "What year did you join up?"

Winchester's eyes don't even look up from the file. "'71."

"Drafted?"

"No," Winchester says with a short grunt.

He's a regular chatty Cathy, this one. Very forthcoming. And I thought I hated small talk. No harm in wanting to get a sense of the kinda person you're trusting to not screw things up, though. Maybe he still doesn't wanna talk about it. Can't say I blame him if he does. I know there's stuff a lot of us that wish we could forget. A lot of us have adjusted, trying to pick up our lives where we left off and have a normal existence. But at night, we're right back in the jungle, being fired on by an unseen enemy that still lives in our heads. Charlie's settled in and not going anywhere.

Winchester looks up at me, realizing I was looking for more. "Figured I'd get drafted, anyway. I wanted to fight for my country. Wanted to have my say which branch of the military I was in, too. So I volunteered."

"How old were you?" I try again.

"Seventeen. Joined up right outta high school."

I do some quick math: Winchester was seventeen in 1971. It's 1985 now, so that'd make him around 31. Sounds right. "What'd your folks think?" I ask, digging into my bacon. Even with the draft in place, minors needed parental consent.

Winchester shrugs. "Not much, I suspect."

This guy's harder to crack than one of those damn Macadamia nuts that old broad in Tallahassee gave me for getting a poltergeist out of her basement. But I get it. Usually, I'm the moody, brooding one that doesn't say much. Seems I'm the more extroverted between the two of us, though. Or maybe his caffeine just hasn't kicked in yet.

But also, maybe it's remnants of war time mentality. You talk to people, you get to know them. They get to be friends. Then there's a good chance of them getting gunned down or blown up by a landmine right next you. The number of friends I lost in Nam...good men. Young. Had their whole lives ahead of them. After experiences like that, it make you hesitant to get close to anyone, figuring they could be dead the next day. Makes sense if that mindset carries over into hunting. It's the same game. You're just as likely to attend a hunter's burial by funeral pyre for someone you'd been hunting with the week before. Seeing them as a friend just makes it harder. Keeping people at arm's length is a viable protection method. And we've all gotta find our own ways to survive this life.

"What was your company?" I ask. Purely making small talk.

"Echo 2-1 Battalion," Winchester says proudly. "Infantry. Made E-4. You?"

"Miner's 7-1," I say, puffing out my chest. "Also infantry, E-4."

I can see Winchester perk up a bit now. "So you fought in the Tet Offensive in '68." I nod. "That's what got me all fired up. Had to wait a few years before they'd take me, though."

I can imagine. Winchester's already proven to be a gung-ho sort of guy. Doesn't stand around waiting—goes where the fight is. I like that. He sure picked the right branch of military, too. Marines are always the first onto the scene. Looks like Bill's right; Winchester was definitely the right man for the job. Seems he was also right about us having things in common. I hope that works to our advantage, 'cos I've found often as not, people who are too similar butt heads the most.

Winchester raises his coffee mug to his mouth. For the first time, I notice a silver wedding ring on his left hand. I don't know too many hunters who're married—know plenty of widowers, though. In fact, the Harvelles are the only couple where both parties are still breathing that I can think of off the top of my head.

Difference between Bill and Winchester though, is Bill looks like he's making an effort for his woman, and Ellen in turn takes good care of Bill. Which is no easy feat. Winchester, though—I can tell no one's looking after him, and he's not trying to impress anyone, either. In fact, Winchester looks like he's barely holding himself together. Looks like he hasn't shaved in weeks, and hasn't slept in just as long. I guess that his wife's dead. Probably just wearing the ring out of habit. Young guy just starting out in life, Bill said he's been hunting for a year, so it fits. Lots of people get into the business after they lose the love of their life in inexplicable circumstances that turn out to be supernatural. Their quest for answers and revenge leads them on the path to hunting. I should know.

I take another big bite of flapjacks and Winchester's got a look on his face like he's seen something real funny. "What?" I demand, feeling my chin to see if I've got real egg on my face. But Winchester's looking over my shoulder. I turn to see what's so damn funny that's got a smirk out of a guy whose so hard-driven he won't even breakfast. The place is empty apart from a few truckers eating heart attacks on plates and some couple with a little brat in a high chair, smearing a Belgian waffle complete with whipped cream and strawberries on his head and laughing like he thinks he's so damn cute.

There's no one falling down, no one sporting a bad comb over, the _Stooges _aren't on the TV, or anything else that tickles my funny bone. "What's so funny?" I demand. Ever since I was a kid, I've always hate feeling like I've missed out on a joke. Or am the joke. I subtly wipe my face again with my sleeve.

"Nothing," Winchester shakes his head, going all stone-faced again. Not gonna get him to tell, now. I've seen POW's more forthcoming than him.

"Where're you from?" I ask.

Winchester eyes me dolefully. He must figure the question's harmless enough, 'cos he says, "Normal, Illinois, originally."

"Hoowee," I say. Winchester's just made me understand the meaning of irony better than any of my English Lit teachers in high school ever did. "But you've got Kansas plates."

"I lived there for awhile," says Winchester. It's clear to me that's all he's willing to say about it.

"I'm from Texas, myself, if you couldn't tell by my accent," I say, with almost as much pride as when I talk about being a Marine. "Witchita Falls."

Winchester nods. "Small world. I did a salt and burn job there not two months ago."

Just look at him, offering up information on his own!

"Whose bones?" I ask. "Might be a relative."

"Thomas Dougray."

"Nope. Never heard of him." I take my fork and scrape all the remaining food to the rim of my plate, scoop it up and shovel it into my mouth. I push my empty plate away, get my wallet out of my pocket and smack a small stack of Benjamin's down on the table. Winchester leaves a few quarters for his coffee.

We both sidle out of the booth. On the way out, Winchester nods to our waitress and says, "Have a good day, Ma'am."

"You too, sweetie," she says with a two-pack a day voice. Winchester may be brash, but at least he's been instilled with manners.

We go back to the Impala. Winchester glares at a station wagon that's parked too close to his Chevy for comfort, and checks his side doors for any dings. Satisfied there's no one in the diner in need of a good ass-whooping, he unlocks the car and we get in. He's got the radio tuned to 96.1 FM, the rock station out of Montrose. Zeppelin's "Kashmir" is playing, and Winchester don't need me to tell him to turn it up.

I'm still trying to figure Winchester out, but I'm liking him more by the minute. I pull a cigarette from the pack in my pocket. I've barely lit up when Winchester snatches the smoke from my hand and tosses it out his window. "There's no smoking in my car," he says. Fair enough. I can respect that. A man's car is his mobile castle. Still, I don't know too many men who were in the service who're non-smokers. My fingers itch for another smoke, but the damn things are so expensive I don't wanna waste another when I know right where the next one'll go if I try.

I give Winchester directions to the house where the nanny is just waiting to pounce on the kids. We park across the street and a few houses down, so we don't look too suspicious.

"The mom's car's already gone," I say, squinting down the street. There's a Ford LTD in the driveway. "But that ain't the same car our monster drives...she's got an Audi."

"Then who's that?" says Winchester, pointing.

I see a petite, brunette-haired woman leaving the house with a car seat, heading for the Ford. She opens up the back passenger door and starts strapping the baby seat in. "That's...not her," I say slowly. "They can alter their appearances, but I don't think—"

The words haven't even gotten fully past my gums before Winchester's getting out of his car. "Oh, we're moving? Don't wait for me or nothing," I yell, wrestling with my seat belt buckle. Winchester's stopped close by his car, but looks real antsy. My bad knee from the war picks now to act up as I almost have to chase Winchester down the street.

The Ford's reversing out of driveway, is flung into drive and comes barreling down the road towards us, going way too fast for a residential street. I wonder if it is the Lamia in a new skin and a new ride making a run for it, after all, trying to shake us off the trail. I stop and wave my arms to get the car to slow down and stop, but Winchester, that crazy son of a bitch—well, he goes out in the middle of the road, _jumps out ten feet in front of a moving car, _and holds out his hand like he's COMMANDING it to stop. The brakes screech as the car stops just in time, so close the bumper's practically touching Winchester's kneecaps. The driver blares her horn, and I can hear her yelling all sorts of unladylike names at Winchester through the tempered glass windows.

"Are you crazy? How'd you know she'd stop in time?!" I shout, wondering if Bill sent me a guy so reckless he bordered on being suicidal. Winchester ignores me and whips out a badge from his jacket, goes around to the driver's side, makes a fist and raps on the window.

I see the woman look from Winchester's face to the badge, clearly wondering if he's for real or just a damn crazy fool with a stolen badge. The face must match the badge, 'cos suddenly she looks less pissed off and more confused and scared like people always do when pulled over by the law. "...Did I do something wrong?"

"Apart from going at least thirty-five on a twenty mile-per-hour street?" Winchester says, replacing his badge and looping one thumb on his belt, easily carrying the presence of authority to pull off being a special agent. He's almost got me convinced; Winchester's the kind of man who radiates intensity, like he has one purpose and his whole existence depends on the successful completion of whatever the task right at hand is. Right now, that's making a civilian believe that he's a Federal Agent.

"Ma'am, can I please see some ID?"

The woman fumbles in her purse, finds her wallet and hands Winchester her driver's license with shaking hands. Winchester takes it, studies it, peers at the woman and back at her ID, and finally hands it back. He gives me a nod that says she checks out. From what I know, Lamia's are into creating their own aliases, not in stealing identities.

Winchester glances in the backseat, at the bouncing baby boy in the car seat.

"Ms. Fleming, what is your relation to the Ward family?" Winchester asks.

"I'm their nanny," says Ms. Fleming, her voice shaking. "The agency assigned me this morning after the old nanny quit...am I in trouble for speeding, or...?"

I feel a jolt at this news. New nanny? What happened to the old one—the one we're hunting, that I spent the last three months tracking? I step forward, show her my badge, too. "Special Agent Turner," I stick out my hand.

"Laura Fleming," she says, shaking it. Still looking scared she's gonna get thrown in federal prison or something.

"Ms. Fleming, do you have any idea why the previous nanny for the Ward family, Ms. Sheri Hayes, resigned from her position?" I ask.

Laura shook her head. "No, I don't. Apparently she just called in this morning and said she quits."

"She didn't give Ms. Ward any indication that she planned on quitting before today?" Winchester asks. "No notice?"

"No," says Laura. "Not that I know of, anyway. I think it was all pretty out of the blue."

"Do you know if Mrs. Ward and Ms. Hayes were having any issues?" Winchester asks, before elaborating, "With the kids. Or if Ms. Hayes was exhibiting any strange behavior?"

Laura makes a "Pfft" sound people do whenever they're overly exasperated. "No idea. I mean, she was in a hurry to get to work, she was stressed out. I got there as soon as I could, there wasn't time to-"

Winchester sounds a bit agitated that we're not getting anywhere. "Do you have _any_ information that would be useful to us?"

"I don't know," Laura snaps, gripping the steering wheel tight. "Why don't you go ask Mrs. Ward, the person who actually _knew _the last nanny?"

"You worked for the same agency, correct?" Winchester asks.

"Yes," Laura says, her voice dripping with annoyance. "But it's not like I ever saw her. Just because we work for the same agency doesn't mean we_ know_ each other."

Winchester clicks his tongue, sounding equally annoyed. I get the feeling he's the sort whose good at rubbing people the wrong way. "Ma'am, this is a Federal investigation for a missing person—"

"Missing?" Laura looks confused now as well as harassed. "Because she quit her job? Isn't there some sort of forty-eight hour thing?"

"Ms. Hayes' sudden resignation is part of a bigger investigation, Ma'am," I say.

"What? She's not some serial killer, is she?" Laura's eyes widen when we don't answer right away. "Oh, God..."

"Ms. Fleming," said Winchester by way of distraction, "You care to tell me where you're taking that child off to in such a hurry?"

Laura calms down enough to say, "The gas station on the corner. The baby's sick and needs some cold medicine."

Winchester raises his eyebrows, looks in the back seat at the kid. "Try again," he says, probably deciding the kid looks just fine. I don't know. He looks like every other kid I've ever seen.

"Okay, I'm going to buy Lotto tickets," Laura admits. "The jackpot's up to 4.5 million."

"Drawing's not till eleven tonight. What's the hurry?" I ask.

Laura huffs and admits, "I was trying to get back before _Days of our Lives _comes on. Happy?" Me and Winchester exchange a look. "What?" Laura says, defensive. "You two try watching a baby all day. It can get pretty boring. Honestly, I don't even know if I _want _kids after doing this job."

"Be sure to mention that to your employer," says Winchester, leaning in his car and waving at the kid. Gets a smile out of him, too. But I don't know a damn thing about rugrats. Maybe smiling's a reaction of fear in kids and he's actually pissing himself. Winchester's probably a pretty alarming looking guy to youngsters.

"If you do go see Mrs. Ward, do you think you could maybe...not tell her about this?" Laura says, sheepish. "I really need this job."

"Alright," I say, getting a business card out of my jacket pocket. "As long as you give us a call if you hear anything about Ms. Hayes. Leave a message if no one picks up at the office."

"Thank you. I will," Laura says. "Can I go now?"

Winchester looks like he's not done questioning her yet, but I can tell Laura's already told us everything she knows—which is nothing. "You're free to go." She takes off the brake and moves forward a foot before Winchester's stopping her again. "Back to the _house_, that is."

"What?" says Lauren, narrowing her eyes.

"We need you to stay at the house," I say.

"What—why?" Lauren demands.

Winchester sighs. "We need you to be our informant. Stay home, call the Agency, see what you can find out about Ms. Haye's resignation and anything else you hear. Don't be late picking up the other two kids. Keep the doors and windows locked, and make something with lots of rosemary in it for the kid's dinners."

"Rosemary—why?" Laura looks at us like we're in some kinda cult.

"Apart from the flavor boost, it's good for the immune system," I say off the cuff.

"Burn some rosemary as incense, too," Winchester says, and the woman has no idea he's telling her how to ward off baby-munching monsters. "It's very aromatic."

The nanny looks at us like we're both complete freaks. She rolls up her window, reverses down the street and pulls back into the driveway. We follow enough to see her get kid out of the backseat and carry him into the house, giving us a dirty look before slamming the door. And I'll bet she locked it up tight, too. Good.

"I'm surprised you didn't just throw rosemary and salt in her face instead of carding her," I say.

"I thought about it," Winchester mutters. "So you think these things skipped town?"

"Looks like it," I say, spitting onto the asphalt. Months worth of work straight down the crapper. "Let's go back to the motel and get my car. We'll split up and check out the daycare and elementary school so we know for sure, then go talk to Mrs. Ward, too. She's a secretary at a law office by day."

"You got enough gas to make it?" Winchester asks.

"I'll fill up on the way into town," I say, remembering to keep up my little fib.

We get in the car and go. Winchester's a good driver; good in the way that he pauses at stop signs just long enough that he can't get written up for failing to stop, seems to be able to find all the green lights and has a sixth sense when it comes to speeding. He always seems to slow down just as a cop car comes into sight, dropping the speedometer down fast enough to able to innocently say, "What seems to be the problem, Officer?" and have the cop come up with nothing.

We pull into the Sleep EZ motel, where it looks like someone's having a bonfire in the parking lot. "Shit..." I say, realizing it's _my car_ that's on fire. "Son of a BITCH!" I yell, thumping the dashboard with both fists.

The lot's got a couple of cop cars in it and a fire truck, lights flashing. I jump out of the Impala while she's still moving, run over to my car—my baby's been torched. Betsy's totally engulfed in flames and smoking like a chimney. Two firemen have got a hose on her to put out the flames. I try to get closer but I get a few cops on me, in my face, going, "Sir, please stand back..." and "Is this your car?"

"Yes!" I yell, trying to bulldoze past them, and they push right back to stop me. I take out some of my frustration by kicking a crumpled up beer can. "It's my damn car—or what's left of it!"

"Sir, please calm down," the cop says, which just makes me more pissed and anything but calm. "What's your name?"

Remembering I've impersonated a Federal Agent around some of these civil servants, I pull out my badge and say, "Special Agent Turner. I've been working the case on the missing children with your Department." Winchester turns up next to me. "This is my new partner, Agent—" I stall and clear my throat when it occurs to me that I don't know the moniker Winchester uses.

Luckily he's on it, whipping out his badge. "Hergescheimer."

_Diamonds are Forever. _Very nice. "So new I don't even know his name," I force myself to laugh, still staring at the heap of twisted metal that once was my home away from home. "Just met him this morning, in fact."

"How long were you away from your vehicle, Agent Turner?" the cop asks.

"An hour? Hour and a half?" I look to Winchester for confirmation.

Winchester looks at his watch. "Hour and fifteen."

The cop suddenly looks skeptical. "You guys have been staying here?" There's no denying this place is the pits. Mice, cockroaches, mold and a furnace on the fritz. But hey, it's affordable and hunting don't pay.

"The Bureau doesn't cover our travel expenses," I say. I don't know if this is actually true, but luckily, the cop doesn't seem to know, either.

"Do you have any idea who might have done this?" he asks. "Anyone with motive?"

"I think we might have some idea," Winchester says. Seems he's reached the same conclusion I have—that the Lamias are unto us and are sending us a warning. Either that or some punks were playing with Molotov cocktails—but at this early hour? Seems doubtful.

I realize Winchester's holding my case file and he opens it up to the pages with the snapshots of the three cars the Lamias are known to drive, and close-ups I took of their license plates. "We believe the drivers of these vehicles may have committed the arson in an effort to impede our case. We need an APB out on all of them. If there's a sighting, we need to be notified at this number." He nods to me and I pull one of my business cards out of my pocket with the number for my motel room and hand it to the officer. "These three women here are our prime suspects. We also have reason to believe they are all armed and extremely dangerous and advise no one approach or try to apprehend them. They also may have altered their appearances."

"Yes, Sir. I'll give these to my Chief right away," says the Officer, hurrying off with the pages Winchester gave him.

"If they have skipped town, let's just hope they haven't ditched their cars," Winchester mutters, hand on the back of his neck. "I'm sorry about yours, by the way."

"So am I," I say, watching as the team works to put out the fire. But it's too late—I'm gonna be in the market for a new ride. I've had Betsy since before I started hunting, and the loss cuts deep.

"I've got to make a call," Winchester says.

"Here," I say, dumbly handing him the room key. He takes off and I'm left talking to Police Chief Nash about the suspects, answering all his questions so the demise of my car can be thoroughly investigated, and watching as the firemen put out the last of the flames. Lucky for me, the motel manager's statement about whodunnit confirms Winchester's suspicions, and lets us know the Lamias still look the same. Or at least they did half an hour ago.

The Chief promises to call if there's any sightings. In the meantime, I've got nothing I can do for the case but sit on my thumbs and wait in my room by the phone soon as Winchester's off it. Great. Just great. Standing there watching the cop cars and firetrucks drive away, there's two things I know: I'm pissed as hell, and those kiddy-snatching, truck-torching bitches are going to burn.

Every cuss word I know comes out of my mouth in one long stream as I get a closer look at the wreckage of my truck. The frame's still radiating heat, so I ball up my jacket around my fist like an over-sized oven mitt and open the Jobox in my flat bed. Luckily, all my tools and weapons were protected from the flames. That's a relief, at least, and all my clothes and few personal belongings I own are all in my duffel bag in the room. So looking on the bright side, at least I haven't lost _everything._

Winchester comes out of the room. "How many calls did you make?" I holler.

Winchester stands with his hands in his pockets. "I called Bill and put out a hunter APB. At least they'll know what to do if they find them." Winchester comes around the side of my truck, leans in as far as he can over the busted window without scorching himself. "Logan, check this out..."

I hop down from the flatbed and go to see. There's a pile of ashes in the back seat, and fragments of what look like—

"Bones..." I scowl.

"See that bit of skull there?" Winchester says. "Kid that came from couldn't have been older than six. They're definitely trying to warn us to back off."

I haven't wanted to take out any monsters as much since I killed the one that got me started hunting in the first place. "But we're not gonna."

"Damn straight," Winchester says. "I'll go confirm the other two Lamias never showed up to work and get a list of all the kids that are absent at the school and daycare so we can confirm their locations. Then I'll go interview Mrs. Ward."

"And I'll stay here by the phone," I say lamely.

"Sorry, someone's gotta," Winchester says, clapping me on the shoulder.

I give Winchester the addresses he needs and go back and wait in the room by the phone, listening to police radio for any vehicle sightings or reported kidnappings. It's all pretty dead on the wire. All the usual suspects must still be sleeping off their misdeeds. Traditionally Lamia like to work at night, but we're keeping every orifice peeled to make sure they haven't gone out of sequence skipping town like this, and trying to find out if they took any kids with 'em.

I hate waiting by the phone. I'd rather be out there hunting down these things myself—if I still had a car. Having no choice but to sit here in a dark dank motel room staring at the wall and waiting for something to happen is like a form of impotence. I wonder how long it'll be before someone invents a phone that can go anywhere. That day can't come quick enough if you ask me. If they'd hurry up with it already, we might just be able to save a few lives.

...

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**...**

I sit through two hours of nothing but reports of a few petty crimes coming through the police scanner. It's sheer boredom playing the waiting game while I drink half a six-pack and chain smoke. Finally I hear a knock on the door and let Winchester in. I'm glad to see he doesn't do the holy water, cutting himself with the silver knife ritual every time he enters a room to prove it's really him.

"Well, Mrs. Ward says that Ms. Hayes was the best nanny she's ever had," Winchester briefs me. "She said Sheri loved her job and the kids and had a real connection with all of them. Mrs. Ward said her and her sisters had become like family, and Sheri's resignation took her completely by surprise. Says there was never any bad blood between them."

"Did she give any reason?" I ask, taking a swig from my beer bottle. "Hard to imagine Mrs. Ward would let someone that close to the family just quit without saying why."

"She had a family emergency, apparently," says Winchester wryly. "Said she had to go home to take care of her ailing mother."

"Do monsters even have mothers?" I ask, offering Winchester a beer. He shakes his head at the bottle. "What? You don't drink, either?" My eyes narrow. Seems like he's pretty clean-living for a hunter. "You're not some kinda Bible thumper, are you?"

It's unusual to see a hunter mixing with the Lord, but it does happen on occasion. Jim Murphy's a good example. I like Jim. Like hunting with him. As long as he doesn't try preaching to me or try to save my soul from eternal damnation, we get on just fine and dandy.

Winchester laughs. "I'm partial to a beer or two in the evening. But I don't typically drink when I'm closing in. The chase is crucial, and I can't afford to make mistakes and do anything that will diminish my senses and slow my reaction time."

"What—like eating?" I say.

"Just not breakfast," says Winchester. It's only now I realize he's got a greasy yellow fast food bag in his hand. He tosses it to me and I catch it. "I got you some lunch, too."

I grunt my thanks, digging into the bag and retrieving my burger. "You eat already?"

Winchester nods. "Lucky I didn't eat yours, too—I thought about it. Was hungry enough to."

"Whatever happened to 'digestion slows me down?'" I smirk.

"Unfortunately, hunting also takes energy," says Winchester, skimming the new folders in his hands, dividing them up into two piles. "Eat when you can, sleep when you can-enough to stay alive."

I nod. That's what I learned in war, too. "What're these?" I ask as Winchester hands me some papers.

"Names and numbers of kids who're absent from the preschool and elementary school today," says Winchester. "We need to account for the whereabouts of each one—confirm with a parent or guardian that they're at home sick or had a doctor's appointment like they claimed, and not stolen off a bus or something. Both the Ward kids were present and accounted for. Here—I've split up the numbers for the absentees. We'll keep listening to police radio for kids who mighta been nabbed elsewhere in the state."

"We've only got one phone in here and the payphone outside. Got enough quarters for that?" I ask. "I s'pose there's the phone in the manager's office..."

Winchester holds up a set of keys. "The manager didn't seem too crazy about me using her phone to make a dozen phone calls, so I paid upfront to rent the room next door for an hour. Didn't ask too many questions, but I could tell she was looking around for my 'company'. I guess it's just that kind of a place."

"Guess so," I agree, remembering how I've heard people coming and going in the rooms on either side of me, bedposts knocking, forced to listen to a near constant soundtrack of the nitty gritty through the paper thin walls.

Winchester goes next door. I keep one ear on the radio and pick up the phone, dialing the number at the top of the list and pretending to work for the school district or wherever it is the parent wants to hear I'm from. I find out that little Tommy really is out with chicken pox, Kaylee is home with a toothache, Neil is resting at home after having his tonsils removed, Carmen has a cold and is being watched by her grandma while Mom works. I get through the whole list, and everything checks out. Winchester comes back a few minutes after after I hang up with Marcus Walsh's mother. I hear more than I needed to know about her son's irritable bowel syndrome.

"Lots of sick kids, but all their parents answered their home phones and confirmed their whereabouts," Winchester says, shutting the door and throwing his ticked-off call list on the table. He sits down, rubs his hands over his face and looks at me. "Anything on the police scanner yet?"

"Nope. Just a theft at a convenience store and—" Winchester suddenly puts up his hand and hushes me, running across the room and grabbing the radio. I lean in and listen, too.

_"__...we have a sighting on that '84 Celica Supra, license plate number GAA-667, heading north east on I-70 towards Glenwood Springs..."_

We've both heard enough for a lead. I gather up my duffel bag and my few meager possessions scattered around the room and head for the door, left wide open by Winchester. I find him in the manager's office, turning in the key to his room. I wait a wholly unsuspicious amount of time and pay for my room and hand in my key, too, and give the manager extra for a tow to haul what's left of Betsy out of her parking lot and to the scrapyard. I can barely stand the sight of my girl all barbequed in the parking lot. It wrenches my gut. But I don't have time to dwell on it right now with kiddy-snatching monsters on the loose. Mourning will have to wait till after the hunt.

Winchester moves aside some stuff in his trunk and helps me put my Jobox in; it's the only thing worth salvaging from Betsy. Even my dashboard hula girl has burnt up. As an afterthought, I take my screwdriver and rescue my license plate, too. The paint's burnt off in places and the metal's a bit warped, but at least I'll have something to remember her by.

Winchester takes North Avenue up to Highway 24, merges onto I-70 and follows the road we heard the the Lamia were on. We've still got the police scanner on, not saying a word to each other, listening for any updates. We've been driving aimlessly for a couple of hours in the direction the car was last seen, hoping we're not chasing a dead end.

"Wonder if they all took the same car," I say at last. "It'd be more convenient."

"For us or them?" Winchester mutters. "What if they decided to split up to confuse us?"

"I suppose it's possible," I frown, pressing my ear against the police scanner. A few minutes later, Winchester's suspicions prove to be right:

_"__3E45, I've got an update on that APB—just spotted the black '83 Mustang GT, license plate 1XL-316, heading southbound on Highway 50..."_

Me and Winchester look at each other. So they have split up. Winchester looks in his rearview mirror, signals, pulls over hard onto the shoulder and brakes. "What're you d—"

"Why didn't they just ditch their old cars and steal new ones?" Winchester growls, reaching right over me to get to the glovebox. He pulls out a map of the U.S. Highway System and spreads it out, so big it almost covers the whole front bench seat. The East Coast is spread out across my lap as Winchester studies the Midwest.

_"__...still in pursuit of the the Celica Supra, now heading southbound on Highway 133..."_

Winchester forces the map at me to me to fold up and waits for the nearest possible window to pull back into traffic without getting side-swiped. He changes lanes to get into the passing lane. Then, without any warning at all, Winchester crosses the median, cranks hard on the steering wheel and next thing I know, we're going back the way we came.

"What the HELL are you doing?" I shout at the maniac sitting beside me, committing some seriously illegal and downright dangerous traffic violations.

"There's only been two of the three cars accounted for," Winchester says, flooring it to get back up to speed.

"So?! The other one will probably be spotted soon. Seems in the past all we've had to do is wonder out loud where they are and another sighting is conveniently reported on the police scanner," I say. "Question is which one to chase."

"No," says Winchester firmly. "That's why they kept the same cars. We're doing exactly what they want us to do—get lost trying to follow three different cars going in three different directions. They're trying to confuse us."

"Clearly, it's working," I mutter. "So which car _do _we follow? Are you going back to follow the one on Highway 50 or 133? Which one do you think is the real deal?"

"Neither," Winchester says. "We're going back to Grand Junction. I think the Audi's still back there, along with Sheri Hayes. She's lying low and playing the waiting game."

"How do you know?" I demand, wanting to stay the course and wishing I knew what the course was.

"It's a hunch," Winchester admits. "But I think it's a good one. The Lamias know we're onto them, so they're trying to distract us from their real plan on by having two of them take off as divergences with staggered departures in different directions so we wouldn't know where to go. If it had been just one car, I might've fallen for it. But two? That was a mistake—a dead giveaway that they're trying to play us. One car is on Highway 50. Highway 133 turns into Highway 92 and connects to Highway 50. Alice and Pamela are probably meeting up around Delta and circling back around, while Sheri is perfectly poised to swoop in and nab the kids like they planned back in Grand Junction."

I consider Winchester's theory. Once I've got it all worked out in my head, I hate to admit it, but it makes a helluva lot of sense and he's probably right. And I'm pretty disappointed in myself for not figuring it out first.

"So now what?" I ask, too prideful to admit to Winchester that he seems to have become the ring leader in my case. Damn. I realize that's given him even more control, letting him call the next shot. I'm the Daddy of this operation. So I take back the wheel and say, "Let's go back and check on Laura."

"That's the plan," says Winchester, still two steps ahead of me, it seems. And the one with the literal wheel in his hands. "We've gotta warn her. Hopefully it's not too late..."

As much as we both want to keep on the road back to Grand Junction, we agree that we've got to get in contact with Laura Fleming as soon as possible, to let her know she's gotta be on her guard without freaking her out too much. Also, the Impala may be a beauty, but she's a gas guzzler and we've gotta stop to refuel, anyway.

Winchester's got Mrs. Ward's business card from earlier and says he'll call her at work and casually ask if she's heard any updates on her ex-nanny since they last spoke, following up by asking for her home number in case he has any further questions. Which we can then conveniently use to check up on Laura. I realize public relations aren't exactly Winchester's forte. From what I've seen, he lacks the finesse for such delicate operations. Comes on too strong, appears unsympathetic, and frankly, he scares people. One thing Winchester's still gotta learn is how and when to pull back the reins.

It's a delicate operation, but I let Winchester make the phone calls since he needs to go in to pay for the gas anyway, plus he's already spoken to Mrs. Ward in person, whereas she's never met me. I know a lot about her personal life, though. Which seems a bit creepy and stalkerish now I think about it, but I _am_ trying to save her children's lives and it's all necessary information I've collected from her records. It's not like I know her social security number. Well, not by heart, anyway. Mighta seen it once or twice.

While Winchester uses the payphone to call Mrs. Ward, I stay in the car and listen to the police scanner.

All I can see is the back of Winchester's head, but it's about as easy to read as his face. The call to Mrs. Ward is about a minute and the second call to Sheri didn't last long at all—a bad sign, surely, if no one's home after we told Laura to wait by the phone. I suppose she could be watching her stories and ignoring the kids. But then again, I've learned that Winchester's a man of few words who communicates mostly in grunts and monosyllable words (if at all), so it's possible he had a whole conversation with the babysitter in that short time. I see him fumble with some change, dial again, and hang up again shortly after. Winchester's face is such a mask that I can't even tell if it's good news or bad news when he walks back over.

"Well?" I say soon as he gets in the car, still grumbling something about gas being $1.21 a gallon. Either Winchester's got his priorities out of whack and the price of gas is more important than a family's lives, or everything's peachy at the Ward's.

"Laura was home. Says everything's normal. Picked up the kids, no problem. They're all at home now. I could hear at least two of them screaming in the background," Winchester says. "I told her to line the doors with salt and rosemary. She wanted to know why, or if it was a prank, and well... I told her to just shut up and do what I say, that I didn't have time to explain...and she just hung up on me. Didn't answer when I called back."

"How rude of her," I say mildly, knowing she was probably only returning the sentiment, from what I've learned of Winchester's mannerisms. I can usually get a pretty good reading on people. Winchester's a no-nonsense kind of guy, and though he means well, seems he can come off as being pretty blunt and obtrusive.

"When she first answered and found out it was me, Laura asked if she could speak to you instead," Winchester says with a hint of amusement and no offense whatsoever as he starts up the car. "You must've left more of a favorable impression with her."

"Well, we did sorta play Good Cop/Bad Cop with her back there," I say. It's weird—I'm used to being Bad Cop, whether I'm working solo or double. "What'd you tell her?"

"I said you were indisposed—utilizing the latrine, so she had to talk to me whether she liked it or not," Winchester says. "She said I was making her miss _Wheel of Fortune_. I told her to turn off the damn TV and do her job."

"I'll bet she loved that," I say sarcastically. "You do know she thinks you're a complete nutcase, right?"

"I don't give a damn what she thinks of about me as long as she can be competent enough to keep those kids alive till we get there," says Winchester darkly. "Luckily Mrs. Ward says she plans on calling in sick for her shift at the diner. So the kids'll have someone with their head screwed on looking out for them, at least."

"At least," I agree. "Did you tell her we met with Laura?"

"Yeah," says Winchester. "She asked me what I thought of her as a childcare provider."

"And?"

"I told her to keep shopping," Winchester says.

I nod. "Good call."

We had been nearly up to Idaho Springs before Winchester performed his highly illegal U-turn, and it takes us four hours to drive back to Grand Rapids, having got stuck in rush-hour traffic. Sitting in a bumper-to-bumper traffic jam, Winchester looks so antsy and impatient that I half expect him to get out and walk the rest of the way there. Might be faster, too. But I know he'd never leave a car like this behind, 'specially with a guy who's in the market for a new one.

When we finally get back on on the street the Ward house is on, we see the red and blue flashing lights before we even see the house—we're too late. Winchester slams his fist into the steering wheel as I groan. We pull up across the street, away from the flashing squad cars—three of them. There's cops everywhere, and an ambulance, too. Some EMT's are pushing a body bag on a gurney out of the house as we get out of the car, already pulling out our FBI badges.

Our fake ID's prove unnecessary, as Chief Nash is there. He recognizes us, walks up to where we're standing near the curb, taking in the scene. "Agents," he says gravely, shaking both our hands. "Looks like you were right about those suspects, after all."

Usually I love to hear those words come out of a cop's mouth, as a lot of the time they seem to refuse to believe what's in front of their faces because the existence of ghosts and ghouls wasn't covered in Police Academy. Right now, the last thing I wanna be is right. I can tell by the look on Winchester's face he's thinking the same thing.

"What happened?" we ask at the same time.

The Chief explains as he marches us over to the aid car. "Neighbors reported hearing a woman screaming and called the police. They said they saw a car matching one of the vehicles with an APB pull up in the driveway not long before the screams started. Our units responded and found the body of Ms. Laura Fleming near the staircase, with her heart ripped clean out of her body. Apparently, it was her first day on the job," he says as we all stare down at the black body bag contained the young woman we had spoke to just that very morning.

"Can we see the body?" I ask, respectfully. The Chief nods to the EMT, and he zips back the black plastic sac. We can barely see Laura in the darkness, save for flashes of red and blue light strobing over her. Winchester borrows a flashlight and shines it at her pale, lifeless face. It's obvious from her colorless skin that her body's been drained of blood. There's a gaping, gory cavity in her chest where her heart should've been. It looks like a fist reached in and just ripped it right out. And me and Winchester know that's exactly what happened. The novelty shock of seeing a dead body has worn out for both us long ago, which is good, given the line of work we profess to be in and how unfazed we should be by death and crime scenes.

"And the children she nannied?" Winchester presses. Though we both already know the answer, we need it confirmed.

Chief Nash hangs his head. "Gone. All three of them. The witness said she saw a woman—identified as Sheri Hayes, the family's previous nanny- packing the kids up in her car and driving off. All the local news stations have been alerted and every available squad car in the country is out looking for them. We've put out a BOLO for the car across all the surrounding states, too. My daughter is friends with the girl who was taken, Megan. Anita is absolutely devastated...to lose Gerry and then have something like this happen..."

We look over to where he's staring, and see Mrs. Anita Ward. There's a blanket around her shoulders and she's shaking and sobbing and clutching a Kleenex to her face. Friends and neighbors have their arms around her to comfort her, and it's clear the Officer trying to question her isn't getting too much in the way of decipherable speech out of her.

The Police Chief looks hopelessly at us, shaking his head in disgust. "Kidnapping children, cutting out an innocent woman's heart...what sort of person is capable of doing something like this?"

"A monster," Winchester answers grimly, staring down at the body of Laura Fleming again as the EMT zips her back up.

"Thank you for your time, Officer," I say, walking away a few paces with Winchester. "So much for our plan for a pre-emptive strike. We've got to get to the nest _now_."

"I know," says Winchester. "Just give me one moment."

Winchester turns and strides over to Mrs. Ward. I follow. She recognizes Winchester, ignores the Officer's last question and reaches out to him. Must've left a better impression with her than Laura, I think. Winchester takes her hands in his in the warmest, most human act I've seen him do in the twelve or so hours I've known him. "Mrs. Ward, we are going to find your children. I promise."

Mrs. Ward lets out a sob, but I've gotta admit Winchester sounds reassuring and pretty damn confident, 'cos there's a note of hope under all that despair when she says, "Thank you," with a trembling voice.

Winchester releases Mrs. Ward's hands and turns to me. "Let's go."

"I really hope you didn't just make a promise that we can't keep," I say once we're out of earshot, on our way back to the car.

"We're finding those kids and killing those Lamia," said Winchester firmly. "It's our job. I can't just stand by and let these evil bitches destroy another family. I won't. That woman's already lost enough."

I hear something like compassion in Winchester's voice, and wonder if this case has somehow touched a nerve. But seeing as how I don't know him all that well and he keeps the surprises coming once I think I've figured him out, it's hard to say what that nerve is. I guess I can go back to my theory that he knows what it's like to have lost a spouse. Still, I know there's no time right now to figure out the enigma that is John Winchester.

"We got work to do," Winchester says to me as he starts up the car.

I couldn't agree more.

...

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**...**

We drive for hours before we reach the site and we both hope we're not too late; even with a head start, it was a long drive for the Lamias, too. Winchester parks and kills the headlights along with the engine. It's so dark out that we have the feel the sides of the Impala to find the trunk. Winchester opens it up and feels around in there. Next second the trunk's lit up when Winchester turns on a flashlight and hands another one to me. I turn it on and see Winchester pulling an aerosol can out of his weapons compartment.

"That hairspray?" I ask.

"Homemade flamethrower," Winchester grins, holding up a silver lighter. "Just in case things go south. I've had good luck with it in the past, and I hear Lamia don't go down too easy."

Winchester closes the trunk and motions for me to lead the way, since I'm the one who knows where the trail head is. "What've you ever fought with a flamethrower?" I ask as we hit the trail, my curiosity getting the best of me. Ordinarily, rookie hunters don't take on anything more dangerous than a run-of-the-mill haunting, and even those can go south fast. But I've learnt by now there's nothing ordinary about Winchester.

"Wendigo," Winchester answers as we run up a steep dirt hill. "Landmines are equally effective. Keeps you from getting your hands dirty, too. And I've had a surprising amount of success with a grenade launcher."

"Huh," I say. Nothing Winchester says can surprise me anymore. Flamethrowers, landmines and grenades against a wendigo...wish I'd thought of that. Not a bad idea if you can clear all the campers out of the area, and easier than using yourself as human bait to lure a wendigo into a gasoline spill and drop a match. It worked, but I walked away with third degree burn covered with skin grafts from my derriere as souvenirs. "Where'd you get that kinda stuff?"

"Caleb, my munitions man outta Nebraska. You know him?" Winchester asks.

"I know the Caleb who deals in _guns_," I say, feeling jealous when I think of all Winchester's toys. "He's been holding out on me!"

"How far is it to the cave?" Winchester says, clearly not giving up any more of his secrets right now. Including whatever the trick is to get Caleb to drag out the good stuff.

"Couple of miles," I say. I don't tell him I've never found the place in the dark before, and I don't need to. I'm following the markings I carved on the trees. He picks up on it fast, and I see him following the carvings with his flashlight, too.

I just hope the Lamias haven't changed their ritual grounds. I'm counting on them being cocky enough to think they gave us the slip and continue on with business as usual.

We hike through woods for a couple of miles. Our unbeaten trail gets steeper and steeper and more rocky and barren until we might as well be rock climbing, and we have to hug the wall close in some parts and shine our flashlights at our feet to keep from falling to our deaths.

"It's just up there," I whisper, pointing to a barely visible crevice leading up to the cave entrance on the rock wall. I'm not stupid enough to shine my flashlight directly at it, so I hope Winchester can see it. Any road, I lead the way up there, walking real slow and careful along the thin ledge. I nod to Winchester and we both turn off our flashlights as we get close.

"You know they'll probably recognize your scent since you've been here before, right?" Winchester asks. "Probably how they figured you out in the first place."

"Yeah," I say, hoping my mere presence won't screw up our game plan too much. "I know."

"I could just go in there without triggering any alarms. Don't think they've got a whiff of me yet," Winchester says.

"NO!" I snap, louder than I meant to be. No way am I gonna be benched in the final inning. Winchester looks at me. "I mean, believe me...we're both gonna want backup in there."

Having come to an agreement, we feel our way along the rock face, side-stepping along it. I squeeze through the narrow crack in the mountainside first, and Winchester follows.

We're in a long, dark, narrow passageway now, blind as bats. And there's probably bats above our heads, too, for all I know. I don't really care to find out and blow our cover. We leave our flashlights off and inch forward, stealthily. The passage is so narrow we have to walk one man in front of the other. I imagine Winchester, the ultimate alpha male, would ordinarily wanna take the lead, but is smart enough to know when to fall back since I've been here before. The way gets broader as we go and less claustrophobic, despite us still going deeper into the rock side.

We move slow, trying not to make a sound. After a couple minutes we round a corner and see the first glow of light up ahead, and the faint sound of women chanting. Me and Winchester look at each other and draw our knives, then follow both.

Around the next corner we see a ledge and then a drop-off. They've gotta be down there. Winchester gets down on his belly and I do the same. We both army crawl over to the edge, not wanting to give away our position yet and keeping as low to the ground as possible. Looking off to to the side I see a series of descending levels of rock making up a sort of staircase. I chance a look over the edge and see they lead down to a basin below. There's a huge bonfire glowing in the center. I spot the three Lamia—a blonde, a red head, and a brunette, but this ain't the start of a joke. They're all wearing dresses of snake skin with their hair down, bare foot, on their knees, rocking back and forth and raising their arms above their heads with their eyes closed, having their ceremonial pre-feast rituals. Sick bitches.

I see the three kids, Kyle, Megan, and Jeremy, bound and gagged and tied up in the corner and huddled together. But they're alive, at least—awake and looking scared out of their minds. Can't say I blame them. I cross my fingers that this'll all go down smoothly without any collateral damage.

I look at Winchester, and see him looking all intense again, staring down at the scene below. I can tell he's coming up with a strategy in his head now he's seen the playing field, but I know better than to talk. The objective is simple: kill the Lamias, grab the kids, get out. But as we can't exactly communicate, we're gonna have to wing it on the execution.

No sooner have I thought this that I feel myself lifted off the ground and thrown into the air, free-falling the some fifteen feet down from the ledge. I manage to hold onto my knife until the wind gets knocked out of me as I'm slammed into the ground. I see my knife skid across the floor and the next thing I know I've got the red-haired Lamia straddling me. She hisses and shows her true form, eyes turning yellow with slitted serpentine pupils and her fangs bared. I'm still struggling to breathe again as her claws dig at my flesh. I gasp and yell and try to buck her off, but she's stronger than she looks.

"You shouldn't have come," she hisses in my ear as I grit my teeth and fight against her. "You're just going to get your chauffeur killed, too—" I see Winchester appear over her shoulder, but make no sign I've noticed him. She senses him a moment later, but not before he's managed to drive his knife into the base of her skull.

The Lamia leaps off me and whirls around to face Winchester, wounded but not down. I know it takes a blade to the heart to kill them. Winchester's not harmless without his knife; he's already got the hairspray bottle out and a lit lighter in his hand. One squirt on the aerosol can and Flames shoot out and encompass the Lamia, igniting her. She writhes and screams as she falls to the ground, as she turns to ashes, but we've got no chance to celebrate or for me to so much as nod at Winchester for saving my life, because her sisters are already seeking vengeance.

I take on the blonde one that Winchester's clearly already thrown a salt and rosemary cocktail at while I was fighting my own battle, as her exposed skin is sizzling. I grab my knife off the ground as the Lamia lunges for me. I move like I'm going to swing my knife, but instead dip into my pocket with my other hand, quickly retrieving another handful of rosemary and salt from a bulk foods bag, throwing the mixture in her eyes. She staggers back, shrieking and clawing at her eyes as I step forward and plunge my knife into her heart. Her hands drop from her smoking eyes to the knife handle as her whole visage shimmers. Dying, sticky red blood pouring from the wound, the Lamia looks at me defiantly, and next thing I know she's broken the knife handle clean off, casting it aside before she falls to the ground, dead, my only weapon buried in her heart with no easy way to get it out. Scowling, I use my boot to roll her corpse into the bonfire. Only way to make sure these things stay dead is to light 'em up.

I look around to see how Winchester's faring, figuring he's probably taken care of the third sister a long time ago—and look around just in time to see him charging the last Lamia standing, arm raised with his silver knife in it, retrieved from the ashes of the first kill. She raises her arm and effortlessly flings him against the cave wall and pins him there, suspended like the Vitruvian Man. I see him bare his teeth, struggling to move his arms away from the wall to no avail. The Lamia advances on him, gets right up in his face, and she uses her mind powers to pry the knife out of his fingers one at a time, till it drops from his fist and clatters to the ground. I make to run forward and wrestle the Lamia off him, but Winchester shakes his head as much as he can, being mostly paralyzed, and I instantly know what he means—don't worry about me. Get the kids outta here.

I run in a crouch over to the kids, pull my Bowie knife from my ankle holster. I expect at any second to be flung across the room again as I hack through the rope tying the youngest one—Jeremy's, wrists together. The kid's so young he can't even sit up on his own, and the binds seem totally unnecessary since the only way he'd be able to make a mistake is by rolling away on his side.

I glance up—see the Lamia up close and personal with Winchester. Her face is against his chest, hands trailing up to his neck and for a second I think she's gonna give him a love bite, but then I realize she's _smelling _him. She freezes, and looks over her shoulder at me. I pause sawing through the rope around Junior's ankles and brace myself to go flying again.

"Let them go. I've found something I want _somuch _more," the Lamia says, turning back to Winchester. I see his lip curl. "Oh yeah?"

I'm careful when I peel the tape off the baby's mouth. I'm surprised he's managed not to suffocate. Soon as he's able, the baby starts to cry, screaming his head off. Can't I say blame him. The cries are a trigger. My mind spirals. But I can't afford to go back. Not now. I have to focus.

I strain my ears and manage to hear the Lamia's response over Jeremy's racket.

"Yes," the Lamia breathes into Winchester's neck. "You have babies of your own—two of them. I can smell them on you. I'm going to find them. I'm going to tear them apart, strip off their flesh. Rip out their hearts, drink their blood...and I'm going to make you watch. If you're lucky, I might even let you have a taste."

All of a sudden, Winchester makes sense to me. I knew there was something essential to his character that he wasn't telling me, and now I know what it is: he's a Daddy.

I see Winchester's jaw set, and there's this wild look in his eyes that scares even a hardened Vet like myself. Winchester roars and something about having his kids threatened gives him the mojo he needs to break free of whatever force the Lamia has binding him to the wall. Before she even has time to react, Winchester lets out a primal scream, picks up his fallen knife and rams it into her heart. He retracts the weapon and savagely stabs her again, twisting the blade in deeper. The Lamia is wailing and hissing as her body courses and flickers between her human and serpentine form. She falls to the the ground and Winchester throws himself on top of her. I can see he's in full-blown Berserker Mode as he yanks the knife back out of her rib cage and stabs her again and again, taken overtaken by savage, protective rage.

"Don't look," I tell the kids that're old enough to understand me. I try my best to shield the kid's views of Winchester brutally hacking away at the monster's corpse, even though they've seen enough tonight that the damage is done and they're already scarred for life. The little girl closes her eyes tight. The baby I'm not worried about—his eyes are all screwed up from crying and I figure he's too young to know the violence he's seeing anyway. The older boy has a morbid curiosity I suppose, and he's got his free will so I can't stop him from staring despite my warnings. Besides, I got other things to worry about—like getting the kids outta here.

I work on freeing the girl, Megan—slicing through her restraints, being careful not to cut her in my haste. When her wrists are free she pulls her own gag out of her mouth, wraps her arms around her baby brother and asks in a shaky scared voice, "Who are you?"

"FBI," I grunt, now working on freeing her older brother, Kyle. "I'm Agent Turner. We're here to help you."

"And that other guy?" Kyle asks when I pull the gag from his mouth. I see his eyes look up to the graphic massacre behind me. Whatever he sees Winchester doing makes him look he's gonna throw up and I hope it's not gonna be on me.

"That's Agent H. He's got some anger issues, but he's one of the good guys," I explain. I straighten up and turn around, and see Winchester standing in a pool of blood, lighting up what's left of the Lamia, his face still ferocious and he's breathing hard, the bloodied knife still clutched in his hand. The Lamia's barely recognizable as ever being human-looking at all, and clearly paid for her threat against Winchester's kids. I nod at him as what's left of the Lamia goes up in flames. "You done?"

Winchester nods, not taking his eyes off the flames and looking like he'd like to do a bit more killing. "Yeah. I'm done."

"Then c'mon. Let's get these kids home," I say. I have to fight back the flashbacks that surface then, of innocent kids I saw in Nam that had been caught in the crossfire, carrying kids with all manner of injuries to safety while they screamed for their dead mothers. When I came home, they called me a baby killer. I blink my eyes fast and hard, as memories of combat rise up that I'd really rather forget. I'm back in the jungle. And all I wanna do is duck and cover.

But I stoop and pick up the youngest, who's still crying his head off and squirming. I realize I have no idea how to hold a kid this young, especially when he's got a bobble head.

"Sheri and her sisters...they turned into these snake things," Kyle says to me. "They wanted to hurt us...what were they?"

I always hate having to let the innocents into the dark world we inhabit. But I figure the kid already knows the answer. No point sugar coating it. "They were monsters."

"Oh," is all he says. Like it's nothing. Kid has to be shell-shocked. It'll hit him later.

I'm about to drop Junior when I see Winchester wipe his blade off on his shirt, tuck the knife into its holster on his belt and stride over.

"Here," he says gruffly. He claps me on the shoulder. "You're here." And I know Winchester knows exactly what I'm thinking—is probably fighting through similar memories, himself. He rescues the kid from me, sets him on his hip and wraps one arm securely around him like an old pro. Even knows how to keep his head from wobbling. Winchester kneels down in front of the older two kids. "Either of you hurt?"

The boy shakes his head while the girl holds out her wrists, red and sore with abrasions, the indents of the rope still visible. "Rope burn," he says, sympathetically. "I don't have anything for it right now, but we'll get you taken care of, okay?" He straightens up and extends his free hand to the little girl. She looks up at him with big, scared eyes. It might help in his vote of confidence if Winchester didn't have so much blood on his face. "C'mon darlin'. There's nothing to be scared of, now. I'm not gonna hurt you. Your name's Megan, right?"

Megan nods, clearly wondering how he knew her name. "You killed the monsters?" she asks in a small voice.

Winchester nods. "They won't be hurting you ever again. Me and my partner here are going to get you and your brothers back home to your Mom. Sound good?" The little girl nods and asks, "You have kids, too?"

Winchester swallows and then says tightly. "Yeah, I do. Two boys."

"What're their names?" Megan asks.

"Sam and Dean," Winchester answers.

"How old are they?" Kyle asks.

"Six and almost two," says Winchester.

"Are they with their Mommy?" the little girl asks. I sit up and pay attention, too. I can tell it's the next logical question to a kid, but I can see the pain in Winchester's eyes, and from it I'm able to confirm my suspicions and work out the rest of the mystery that is John Winchester. "No, honey. She's gone," is all Winchester manages to say—probably all he trusts himself to say. He must've managed to gain her trust and sympathy, because Megan reaches up and grips his hand tight.

"Ready to go, Kyle?" Winchester asks the oldest kid.

Kyle crosses his arms, making it clear he doesn't need anyone holding his hands. "How do you know our names?" he asks guardedly.

"They're in your case files. Missing persons. You've got your Mom and the police looking for you everywhere," I say. I show the kid my FBI badge, and he seems to relax seeing proof that I'm a real authority figure. Well, real enough. Can't blame the kid for being paranoid after what's happened to him. I wonder if he's got any idea how lucky he is that we showed up when we did.

There's no need to put out the fires; they're already burning out from lack of oxygen in here and the cave's getting darker, the dying flames leaving behind nothing but ashes. I head up the stone staircase, first. Each step is a few feet high, and even though I can tell that Kyle clearly doesn't want my help, he accepts it as I lift him up the highest steps that his legs aren't quite long enough to hurdle. Winchester's holding the younger two as he climbs the stairs, and I can tell from the ease in which he carries the burden that it's nothing new to him. Jeremy is still crying, and Megan's clinging to his neck so tightly it looks like a stranglehold.

We get up to the platform and I turn on my flashlight as we enter the dark tunnel. Winchester somehow manages to juggle the kids enough to reach into his jacket pocket and retrieve his own flashlight, handing it to Kyle. Me and the kid lead the way, lighting up the path. I can hear Winchester behind me, hushing the screaming kid to calm him down. I'm all for that.

Kyle has to fall behind me as the passageway gets narrower again. As we're nearing the mouth of the cave, I see the beam from the kid's flashlight shining every which way. The light hits the ceiling and I see that I was right earlier; hanging between all the stalagmites and stalactites are hundreds of sleeping bats hanging upside down. "Awesome," I hear Kyle whisper, but the girl sees the bats and completely loses it, opening her mouth wide and letting out a loud, high-pitched shriek that makes my ears ring.

"Great..." I mutter as all the bats wake up, and above our heads they all start flapping and making their squeaky little echolocation sounds. The kids are all freaking out now, and I ignore Kyle's protests and grab his arm, dragging him to the gap in the rock as bats fly out of the cave over our heads. I squeeze through first and find my footing on the ledge, pulling Kyle out after me and gripping his arms to make sure he doesn't tumble over the edge. We step back and make room for Winchester to get by. The gap is too narrow for him and both kids to squeeze through, so he passes Megan off to me and manages to slip through the crevice with the youngest kid.

We're all out of the cave now, pressed against the rock wall as bats streak out over our heads. Megan whines and even though I cut her free and I only neatly killed _one _monster in front of her, she must be able to tell I'm not so good with kids, 'cos she lunges for Winchester, despite having seen him brutally hack what outwardly appeared to be an innocent woman to bits. Figure that one out. I'm not bitter—it's just an observation.

Despite going downhill, our hike back down the mountain is much slower, cumbered because of the kids. More than once I have to grab Kyle when he gets too close to the ledge, and he finally consents to letting me hold onto his arm and guide him along.

Things are much easier-going when we leave the rock face and get back to the dirt and pine trees. I glance back at Winchester a couple of times, and see he's still managing to hold onto both kids. Kyle turns out to be a real trooper; despite only being in the second grade, he doesn't complain at all about the two-and-a-half mile hike in pitch darkness. I point out all the marks in the tree trunks as we go, and he helps me keep track of them. "There!" he says and points whenever he spots another one.

"Almost there, soldier," I tell him, as the downward hills begin to get less and less steep. We race down the next hill and wait at the bottom. Winchester follows more cautiously without the use of his arms for balance and stability. He's careful with his footing and makes it to the bottom of the hill.

I shine my flashlight around the dirt clearing until it falls on the pristine black paint job of the Impala. Winchester marches over to the driver's side door. He puts Megan down and she immediately clings to his leg as he digs around in his pockets for his keys. He unlocks the doors, opens the back passenger side and motions for the kids to get in. Kyle helps his sister in first and then climbs in after her, buckling her seatbelt and then his like a good big brother.

Winchester opens the trunk, tossing the can of hairspray inside. He reaches in the back of the trunk, pulling out a couple of blankets and something from the first aid kit. He wraps Junior up in one of the blankets. "Here you go, guys," he says, handing one off to the shivering kids in the car. He props the baby against the back seat, where he's able to sit up with the aid. I hold the flashlight while Winchester puts ointment over the rope burns on the kids, no doubt from being yanked around half the day. The Lamia's probably waited to tie their legs till they got there, since there's only indentations from the rope, but no burns. Winchester bandages up their wrists, picks up the baby again, shuts the car door and turns to me, holding the still-blubbering kid out. "I left Sammy's car seat with Bill and Ellen, so you're gonna have to hold him up front, Logan."

"I could just drive," I offer, looking at the kid like he's a live grenade.

Winchester smirks. "Not a chance."

"Can't the kids just take him?" I'm aware that I'm pleading now. And that it's very unbecoming.

"Those kids are tired and have been through hell and back. Let 'em rest. C'mon, man. You can do this," Winchester says, like he knows he's making me face Goliath. I reluctantly take the kid, and try to hold him like I saw Winchester do. He nods his approval and gets into the driver's seat. I get in the other side and set the kid on my lap. "If you spit up on my jacket, so help me..."

I hear Winchester chuckle at me and my ineptitude with children as he starts up the car. The kid's crying is even more annoying in close quarters. "How do I make it stop?" I ask whoever will answer.

"Jer'my cries a lot," Megan answers oh-so-helpfully.

"It could be a lotta things," Kyle says. "My Mom says he cries when he's hungry, tired, sad, or when he needs his diaper changed."

"Any guess is as good as the next. Could be all of the above," Winchester says. "When's the last time you kids ate?"

"Lunch," Kyle grumbles the same time as his stomach.

"Tell you what—we'll stop for food at the first convenience store we see." Winchester does a two-point turn around and pulls back onto concrete, getting us back on the highway. I'm itching for a post-hunt victory smoke, but remember the no smoking in the car rule. It probably especially applies with kids in the car.

I'll bet Winchester didn't want me smoking in his car 'cos he's got youngin's. I guess that makes sense in hindsight. If you believe everything the Surgeon General says.

We get back to civilization. As promised, Winchester stops at a 7-11. A rumble on my lap accompanied by a revolting smell in the car tells me that Junior's got a full load in his pants. "Ah...we don't hafta change him, do we?" I say, wrinkling my nose in disgust. "What're they feeding this kid? It's a two hour drive back to Grand Junction. We can't have him in here stinking to high heaven!"

"Give him to me," Winchester sighs. He takes Stinky from me and brings him into the 7-11 with him.

I try to ignore the lingering smell and wait in the car and babysit the other two while Winchester does some shopping. He left the car running for the heat, so I turn the radio tuner, looking for something the kids might like, trying to cheer them up since they're sitting in the back seat like traumatized zombies. The little girl perks up a bit at some pop song heavy on the synthesizer so I leave it on station playing Billboard's Top 100, even though I find the song physically painful to listen to. Kids today wouldn't know good music if it danced naked in front of them.

Ten minutes later, I see Winchester coming back with a paper bag in one arm and the baby in the other and change the radio back to the good stuff to save face. Winchester hands the kids each a plastic-wrapped deli sandwich, juice box, and bag of chips. He hands me the same, only with a beer instead of a juice box.

I grunt my thanks, taking the food off him. "Can you hold him for a minute?" Winchester asks, and I reluctantly take Junior back, grateful at least that the smell is gone. The kid makes grabby motions for my sandwich. I lift up my arms and he almost falls off my lap, but I catch him at the last second. It's impossible to eat_ and_ hold this kid. I go to break off a piece of the sandwich for Junior, but Winchester shakes his head at me. "He hasn't got teeth yet."

"Oh," I say. "Guess that'd make eating difficult..." Junior's crying again when I lift the bite of sandwich out of his reach, and I can see in his big open mouth that he's all gums. I look at Winchester, in the middle of what appears to be a very delicate operation. He's got a plastic baby bottle full of water in one hand, and is carefully tipping white powder from a packet into into it with the other.

"Where'd you get that?" I ask.

"Inside. They had bottles, formula packets, and a sink with running water," Winchester explains as he screws the top on the bottle, holds his thumb over the teat and shakes it to mix it up. I watch in mild awe—there's something funny about seeing this killing machine doing something as domestic as making a baby bottle. Winchester rolls his eyes at me, still trying to do a balancing act with the sandwich and the kid. He lifts Junior out of my arms, flicks a bit of lettuce off his head, tilts him back and sticks the bottle in his mouth like he's been through this drill a million times before. Which, I now realize, he probably has.

When everyone's eaten apart from Winchester (I swear, he's not human) I get Junior again so Winchester can drive. Luckily, all the kids now seem as content as can be expected. The ride back to Grand Junction is pretty quiet. I suppose the kids don't much feel like talking, and that's fine by me. Winchester is as chatty as ever. Junior conks out on the road, going limp and leaning against me, drooling all over my shirt. Must be something about knowing I helped save this kid, but I don't mind too much.

So, Winchester's a Daddy. I never woulda guessed it. But looking back now, I guess it makes sense, and wonder how I missed the little signs that were there all along. I remember now seeing Winchester smiling at that kid in the diner smearing his breakfast in his hair, probably 'cos he reminded him of his own kid. Moving my Jobox in the trunk, I remember seeing a fat plastic yellow baseball bat. I hadn't thought too much of it at the time. When Winchester spent all that time making "a phone call", he had said he was putting an APB out in the hunting network. Best way to do that is through the Roadhouse. Where his kids are staying. And I'll bet he was scared for them when we figured out the Lamias were on the move and wanted to put Bill on red alert. I know I would, in his shoes. Just like I bet I also would've ripped that Lamia to shreds if she'd threatened my family. If I had one.

Winchester pulls over in front of the Ward house. The ambulance and police cars have all cleared out and porch light is still on. Winchester turns off the car and reaches past me into the glovebox, retrieving some wet wipes. I'm pretty sure that's another thing only a father with small children keeps around. He looks in his mirror and uses them to wipe the blood from his face. Smart thinking. He reaches under his seat and pulls out a leather jacket, putting it on and zipping it up, effectively covering up all the blood stains on his clothes. Checking my own reflection, I realize that for once I walked away much better for wear, apart from the claw marks up my forearms. But those could be explained easily enough if any questions emerge. Any blood on my clothes is pretty much concealed by the fact I'm wearing black and it's black outside, so figure I don't have to worry too much about spooking Mrs. Ward anymore.

Winchester gets out of the car and opens the door facing the sidewalk. The kids climb out from beneath the blanket, racing for their front door. I get out of the car slower, still holding the sleeping youngster.

"Need me to take him?" Winchester offers as we follow on the kid's heels down the walkway. Kyle and Megan are both already knocking their fists on the door.

"Nah," I say, surprising even myself as we climb the steps to the door. "I've got 'im."

Winchester raises his eyebrows at me and then grins. "Not so scary afterall, are they?" He claps me on the back and leads the way up the walk.

The front door opens and Mrs. Ward answers. She's in her bathrobe with her hair in a messy, loose bun, her mascara's run and gave her raccoon eyes and her hands are still gripping tissues. She lets out a strangled cry and her hand flies up to her mouth when she sees her kids alive, one of them being held by a supposed Agent she'd seen earlier that day when her house was a crime scene. She drops to her knees and pulls her youngest two into a tight hug, sobs into their shoulders, kisses them both on their foreheads. She straightens up and reaches out for Jeremy. I carefully hand him over, and he barely stirs as he's transferred, resting his head on his mother's shoulder.

Mrs. Ward is stammering, crying and laughing at the same time. "W-where were they? How d-did you find them?"

"We tracked the license plates of the suspects found them in the custody of their three kidnappers, just off Larch Drive, Ma'am," Winchester says calmly. "The children were frightened but largely unharmed."

Mrs. Ward swallows hard and asks "And the kidnappers...did you catch them?"

Winchester bows his head slightly. "We were forced to act in self-defense...there were casualties, Ma'am...with all three of them."

Mrs. Ward's hand is over her mouth, trembling. It seems the news is more than she can bear. "I'm sorry...it's just...I trusted her. I trusted all of them. I thought that my children were safe...we were like family. I'm just grateful that I won't ever have to see..." Mrs. Ward seems unable to finish vocalizing her thoughts, tears in her eyes. "Just...thank you. Thank you so much..."

"It was our pleasure to be able to return your children home to you, Mrs. Ward," I say.

"Have a good evening, Ma'am," says Winchester, inclining his head.

Mrs. Ward smiles at us and wipes at her eyes. "Thank you. Both of you." Unable to restrain herself, she gives us both a one-armed hug and ushers her children into the house. She gives us one last grateful smile and closes the door behind her. We both step back and stare at the house for a moment, congratulating ourselves on a job well done and family saved from further tragedy.

"How long d'you think it'll take one of those kids to talk?" I ask Winchester as we go down the steps, figuring he knows more about this sorta thing than I do.

"Hard to say. It can take kids a while to open up after a traumatic experience. And when they do, I doubt anyone'll believe them," says Winchester as we reach the car. "Either way, we'll be out of here long before the cops follow up on it."

We get in the car and I pull my flask out of my jacket pocket. I take a long swig and offer it to Winchester. He considers it for a moment, but the hunt is over so he takes a measured sip before returning it to me, clearly still wanting to be a responsible driver. He starts up the car and pulls away from the curb, taking off down the road.

"It was my wife," Winchester says, breaking the silence. He stares out the windshield as we come to a four way stop, checks it's clear and makes a right turn. "About a year and a half ago, I fell asleep in front of the TV, watching some old war movie. I heard her scream, it sounded like it was coming from our baby's nursery. I went upstairs, and Mary's wasn't there. I thought I'd just had a nightmare, dreamed her screaming...it wouldn't be the first time. I reached into Sammy's crib, and blood started to drip down onto my hand...I turned around and looked up at the ceiling, and Mary was pinned up there, stomach slashed, bleeding...her mouth open in this silent scream. I watched her die...watched her burst into flames..." Winchester stops there at a red light, looks at me with a pain in his eyes that I know all too well. "Have you ever heard of anything like that?"

"No," I admit, though I did experience secondhand horror and bewilderment from listening to Winchester's story. I've gotta admit it's in the top ten freakiest paranormal deaths I've ever heard of. Can't think of anything evil enough to pin people to ceilings, eviscerate them and set them on fire.

"No one I've met has," Winchester laments. "The whole second story burnt down, but I didn't lose my boys so I've been able to keep going. I had everyone and their cousin tell me I should give them up when I started seeing psychics and reading these old books, trying to find out what happened to my wife. They all thought I was going crazy. Truth is, hunting for Mary's killer and taking care of my boys are the only things keeping me sane—the only things I have worth living for. I take my boys everywhere with me, except on hunts, of course," Winchester says, like he expects me to call him out for something or other. "I always have them stay with one of the few people I can trust anymore. I'm just afraid that if I don't find what killed Mary and end it...that it'll come back for my kids. And things like those Lamia, every evil son of a bitch I kill...it's one less thing out there that can hurt them. But not a whole lot of people see it that way."

Winchester looks at me like he expects me to tell him I think he's wrong for how he's raising his kids, too. But I don't.

"How come you never told me you're a Daddy?" I ask.

"How many hunters do you know who've got kids?" Winchester says.

I think about it. "None." I think of Ellen and Bill. "Well, not yet."

"That's why," Winchester answers. "If people, or monsters, too—if they know about my kids, they know what my weakness is. They know how to get to me. I can't let that happen. When something threatens my boys...God help me, I have no control...there's no limit to what I'll do to protect them."

"I believe that," I say, thinking of how I saw Winchester transform into a ruthless killing machine back in the cave when the Lamia threatened his kids. The look in Winchester's eyes, his ferocity...it was downright scary.

"I want to keep my boys from having to be dragged into the fight for as long as possible," Winchester goes on like he didn't hear me. "Sammy...he's too young to know anything. But Dean, he was there that night Mary died. He saw. I think I'm gonna have to start training him to shoot, soon. He needs to be able to protect his little brother in case something ever happens to me."

Winchester's voice is filled with regret. I can tell it bothers Winchester knowing he's gotta turn his kid into a little soldier. I'll bet he'd much rather be playing catch with his boy like normal Dads do for recreation instead of taking him shooting.

"If it's any consolation, I'd be doing the same thing in your shoes," I say. Winchester looks surprised. "When a family's been touched by the kind of evil like yours has been, it leaves a mark. It makes you a target—a magnet for everything supernatural. Good thing you learned the truth so soon and got in the game, or I bet you'd have all have been dead within the month."

"We almost were," Winchester says. "A family friend of ours was watching the kids while I went to see a psychic...came back and a hellhound had torn her to shreds. There was blood on the wall, 'We're coming for the children'...I grabbed my boys and left Lawrence. Never looked back."

I'd be lying if I said I didn't get goosebumps right then. I think Winchester's got the creepiest conversion story I've ever heard. "That's exactly what I mean! If you'd given up those kids to some ignorant civilians, it would've left them vulnerable to attack from all angles. You're doing right by them, man. That blood you saw on the wall? That's no joke. Believe me—you'd be a far worse father if you did nothing to protect them from what's out there. And don't let you ever let anyone tell you otherwise."

Winchester's mouth twitches in something close to a smile. "I guess I just couldn't go back to pretending everything's normal after learning what's out there," Winchester says.

"Damn straight you couldn't!" I cry. "That mentality's what gets people killed. It's like seeing your friend get hit by a train and standing on the tracks even though you know the next train's still coming. It's the same with quitting. The number of hunters I've known who tried to go into early retirement...there's no such thing, no happy endings. They stop looking for signs. They get sloppy, complacent. And one day, the past always comes back to bite them in the ass. Our paranoia is all that's keeping us alive. If you don't go to the hunt, you _get _hunted. If you stop salting your windows, next thing you know you're being eaten by a ghoul in your sleep. So anyone who tells you you're doing wrong by those kids dragging them all over the country—it's probably gonna cost you a fortune in therapy bills one day, but at least they're alive."

"So what about you?" Winchester asks. He's just talked more than he has all day, and I get the feeling he's not too comfortable with having the spotlight on him and his kids for too long. He hardly seems like the caring and sharing type, and I can tell he's well over his word limit.

I take another long drink from my flask. I know I'm gonna need it to tell my recruitment story. "Seven years ago last June, day before my wedding, my fiancée, Heather, her maid of honor—who was her sister, and one of her bridesmaids—who happened to be my sister—went out for drinks for Heather's bachelorette party. They drank too much and got a taxi home. I tried calling her that night to make sure she'd gotten home alright—no answer. I called my sister, her sister—no answers. I called anyone who'd been at the bachelorette party, and no one had seen them since they left the bar. So I found out what taxi company they used, and found out the cab and the driver never returned from the fare. So I called the police."

I pause and swallow hard. "The next morning, they find the cab in the middle of some woods, blood everywhere, all three of them dead, gutted, hearts ripped out...turns out their driver had been a werewolf—fully aware of and embracing his condition, looking for easy kills. The police tried to put it on a wolf, or bear...in a locked car? I knew something else was going on. I found out the name of the driver, but he'd vanished. I quit my job, moved—devoted my life to finding out what happened to them. I started reading books, like you did. Started to believe in things I never thought _could _exist. I read national newspapers, noticed deaths matching what had killed Heather, Amber, Nina, all in locked taxis...the papers led me straight to him, and I figured out the name he was going by and the taxi firm he was driving for. I don't know how no one ever noticed this same guy was connected to all these killings. If they did, no one had nabbed him yet. I think they were still looking for the Big Bad Wolf with opposable thumbs—just the wrong one. By then I'd read up on werewolf lore—knew how to kill them. I called for a taxi in Cincinnati, requested him by name, said I'd got a ride from him before...when he picked me up, I saw his face to be sure it was him...before he'd even pulled away from the curb, I got out my gun and shot him in the head with a silver bullet. Shot him again in the heart for good measure. I knew people would've heard the shots, so I bolted. It was never traced back to me, and I've been hunting ever since. I haven't been able to stop."

Winchester listened to my story, not saying a word. Neither of us are looking for sympathy or a shoulder to cry on from the other, but I do think we get each other—have a healthy respect that neither of us ever thought we'd find ourselves where we are now.

"Sounds like we're not too different," says Winchester after awhile.

"Guess not," I say.

"How'd it feel?" Winchester asks, "When you put a bullet in the son of a bitch that killed your fiancée?"

"Like justice," I say. "Brought me closure, I guess. Not as much peace of mind as I thought it would. I mean, I'm hardly living a life of contentment, am I?"

"When I find what killed Mary and send it back to hell, I'm throwing in the towel," says Winchester. "My boys deserve better than this life."

"I'm sure they do," I agree. "If only it were that easy. Just remember what I said earlier—quit hunting if you feel you have to, but never, ever, let your guard down."

Winchester nods. "Where're you headed? I guess I've got no choice but to give you a lift."

"You don't have to go outta your way. I'll go where you're going. I was thinking about seeing if I can't talk Bill into selling me one of his old bikes for the time being," I say. "Seeing as how I need new wheels after those harlots torched mine..."

"Okay, then," says Winchester, getting onto I-70 bound for Elgin. "The Roadhouse it is."

...

TBC

AN: One more chapter to go! In which John reunites with his boys! (Finally-the Wee!chesters! I hear you cry)

PS: I will only be able to check my email through tomorrow night (the whole hiatus from the internet thing I mentioned). So any reviews you were thinking of sending would be pretty awesome right now... :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

…

We drive all night, only stopping for gas and coffee. I stay awake to make sure Winchester doesn't fall asleep at the wheel, seeing as how I know it's been at least forty hours since he's slept. I offer to take over at every gas station so Winchester can get some shut eye, but he flat out refuses. He's a stubborn one, but the coffee does a good enough job keeping him awake and alert. He says he's used to not sleeping much and driving all night, that getting more than four hours of sleep in a crappy motel room is a good night for him. Says having kids who get nightmares will do that to you. I'll bet money he's got nightmares of his own, too. We all do.

We don't do much talking, each preoccupied with our own thoughts, I imagine. Winchester has the radio on low until everything goes static, then switches it out for an Allman Brothers Band cassette, followed by Lynard Synard, Rush, Bad Company, Deep Purple, Grand Funk, Credence Clearwater Revival—pretty much everything I used to have on vinyl before I up and left my old life behind. I had all my favorites on cassette. But those are gone now, too. Up in smoke.

It's early morning when we pull up to the Roadhouse. We go up to the door and Winchester knocks. A moment later, Bill answers. He takes one look at us and lets out a low whistle. "You two look dead on your feet. Come on in," he stands aside to let us by, probably tracking in dirt but he doesn't mind. "How'd it go?"

"Monsters dead, kids saved, we're both back in one piece—mission accomplished," I say as we step into the familiar bar that frankly reeks of hunters—so basically booze, dirt, sweat, blood and gunpowder.

"Meant to call you last night to say we were heading back, Bill. But we didn't finish up till after midnight and I didn't wanna wake the whole house," Winchester says. I agree with him there; calls in the middle of the night are usually a bad thing. "My boys still asleep?"

"Yeah—want me to go wake 'em up?" Bill asks, jerking his thumb towards the stairs.

I can tell by the way Winchester stares wistfully at the door leading upstairs that he wants nothing more than to see his kids, but he sits down on a bar stool and says, "No, let them sleep. They'll probably be up soon, anyway. How were they?"

"Great—good practice for when we have our own, too, I'd imagine. They're good kids, both of 'em. Ate what we put in front of them, went to bed on time, minded Ellen—"

"Everyone minds Ellen," I laugh, sitting on the stool next to Winchester. "That woman of yours can put the fear of God into a man, Bill. Boys too, apparently."

"No problems with Sammy?" Winchester asks. I think I remember him saying Sammy's the younger of the two.

"He took a bit of coercing sometimes. That boy's got a bit of stubborn streak," Bill says.

Winchester's probably thinking of a million examples to back it up from his tired laugh and shake of the head. "Don't I know it..."

"Wonder where he gets that from," I smirk at Winchester. Bill laughs, knowing _exactly_ what I'm talking about.

"Anyway, Dean was always able to get Sammy to come around. He's real good with that baby brother of his; Dean did everything but change Sammy's diapers. It was like we were only watching one kid," Bill says.

"That's Dean," Winchester says proudly, before looking down at his hands. I see his face fall and wonder what's going on his mind, 'cos to me he looks like he's feeling guilty about something or other. Don't know why—having one kid who takes care of the other sounds great to me!

Bill brings up the hunt again then, and I tell him all the finer details: how Winchester came pounding on my door at the crack of dawn just like he said he would, interrogating Laura Fleming, finding Betsy up in flames, all about the wild goose chase, finding the nanny dead, and going up to the cave for the big showdown and rescue. I do most of the talking, and Winchester mostly just stares, looking so tired I'm surprised he hasn't done a faceplant onto the bar yet. He's so out of it he doesn't even notice the wisecracks I make about his intensity of character. Either that or he's just doesn't care. I imagine his skin's thick as rawhide. He is a Marine, after all.

It's too early in the morning for even hunters to have a drink, but Bill makes all of us some coffee. The hot caffeine does a bit to perk me up, but it's not until Winchester hears the sound of kids laughing and the pitter patter of little feet on the stairs that he breaks out of his reverie. Winchester turns to me, a smile in his face and a twinkle in his eye and says, "This right here is the best part of a hunt. Think about it the whole time I'm gone."

No sooner have the words left Winchester's mouth that the door to the staircase swings open, bouncing off the wall and I turn to see two kids framed in the doorway. One's bigger and one's smaller. Both are sporting bed heads and are still in their pajamas, both grinning like it's Christmas morning. One cries, "Dad!" and the other "Dada!" and they run across the room.

Winchester's already up and on his feet. He meets them halfway, dropping to one knee, arms open wide and they run right into them. "Hey, boys," he says as his arms close around them in a bear hug. I can't see Winchester's face, but I can see his kid's smiles over either of his shoulders as they cling tight to him, and there's no doubt in my mind that these boys love their Daddy, crazy as he is. And after everything I saw tonight, everything Winchester confided in me about his boys—I know the feeling's mutual. In fact, he probably loves 'em even more.

Watching the happy family reunion, I suddenly have the urge to call my own father. He's in a retirement home back in Houston, and I realize I can't even remember the last time I visited or even called my old man. I feel a lump in my throat and my eyes sting a bit as I feel guilty for not seeing the man who single-handedly raised me more often; he probably hasn't got much in the way of time left. Damn it, Winchester. He's the last person I ever imagined would trigger me go all soft and sentimental...

I notice Bill watching me out of the corner of my eye, see him smirking like he can read my thoughts. "Shut up, Harvelle," I scowl.

Winchester comes back over to the stool next to me and reclaims his seat, a son on either of his thighs. I can definitely see the family resemblance. They kids've both got the same browny-green eyes as Winchester, similar facial features. The older's one's got fairer hair, while the younger one has darker hair like his Daddy. I try to imagine what their Momma mighta looked like. Probably had delicate features and light hair like the older one, 'cos I know he didn't get 'em from his Daddy.

"Logan, I'd like you to meet m'boys," Winchester says proudly. "This here's Dean, and the little one's Sammy."

The younger one, Sammy, takes one look at me and suddenly gets shy, turning and burying his head against Winchester's jacket. Winchester chuckles and rubs Sammy's back as the other one, Dean, watches me uncertainly. Reproachful. "Is he your friend, Dad?" he asks his old man in a stage whisper.

"Well yeah, I guess you could say that," Winchester glances at me, as if verifying this fact. Winchester's interesting enough company—only mildly terrifying at times—we've both seen combat and know cars. And far from getting me killed like I fear he would, he saved my life...good enough for me.

I nod and smile tightly. "That's right."

Dean seems satisfied, and sticks out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Mister Logan."

I laugh, shaking the kid's hand, who has a surprisingly strong grip for a pipsqueak. "Right back at you, kid. Call me Logan."

"Yes, sir," says Dean, and I feel a note of satisfaction in seeing that Winchester's taught his boy the concept of respect, something more kids this day could use. "I mean Logan."

I decide right there and then that this kid's all right—both of them are, even though I haven't been able to gauge the younger one too much 'cos he still seems half asleep. They seem like a fairly normal family in this context, considering the lifestyle they lead. I can see Winchester's moral dilemma about knowing he'll have to start training them up soon. The kids won't be normal for long, that's sure...

"What'd you boys do while I was gone, Dean-o?" Winchester asks, giving the kid a squeeze around his middle.

Dean takes a deep breath and launches into a list of everything they did. "We ate pizza, and then we played Chutes 'n Ladders and watched _The Muppets_, and then we went to bed and the next day we went to the park, and got ice cream, and I played catch with Bill and Sammy ate a bug!" Dean giggles then. "It was funny."

Turns out the little one was listening after all. I don't know their comprehension level at that age, but Sammy makes a face at the memory of his snack, sticking his tongue out and shaking his head. "Yucky," he says as his dad and brother laugh endearingly.

"Bill, when you said you fed them, I didn't think you meant they had to forage," Winchester jokes.

"Hey, you know the rules. Only get to eat what you catch yourself around here," Bill volleys back.

I listen to Winchester listen to his kid while I drink my coffee, watching them without looking like I am. The toddler is quietly playing with the dog tags around Winchester's neck. Dean's talking animatedly, waving his hands around, telling his Daddy every detail about some kid's show I've never heard of but sounds ridiculous to me. Winchester smiles, but it's not an absent or indulgent smile; he's hanging onto every word his kid says. I can't help but be amazed; this isn't the man I spent the last twenty-four hours supposedly getting to know. It's like a switch has been flicked from Hunter Mode to Daddy Mode. Winchester's no longer a pathologically intense, ruthless hunter acting on sheer instinct—he's now whole-heartedly an attentive, caring father. Just like that. The difference between the two different sides of him I've seen is like night and day. The kids seem to tranquillize him, changing him from a hardass into a big softy. I imagine it must be hard for him to be pulled in two directions.

I start to feel a bit awkward and intrusive sitting here while Winchester and his boys play catch up, so I cough, turn to Bill, who's busy wiping down some glasses, and say, "Hey, Bill? You got a bike you're willing to part with till I get a new ride?"

Bill thinks for a second. "Yeah. Follow me." He throws the cleaning towel down on the bar and leads the way to the garage out back. Harvelle's got a line of bikes in the shed. He's a bit of a collector, having spent much of a decade going cross-country on a Harley, hunting light as he went, fitting whatever weapons he could into his saddle bag. This was before he bought The Roadhouse and settled down with Ellen, of course.

"You can take this one if you like," says Bill, pointing at his 1979 black and chrome Harley Davidson softail cruiser. I'm not sure what Harvelle wants for it—money or the honor system, so I reach uncertainly into my jacket for my checkbook. Bill ups up his hand. "No need, Logan. She's all ready to go. Just bring her back when you've found yourself a new car."

"I will," I say, truly appreciative of my friend's generosity. Bill Harvelle's gotta be one of the best men I've ever met outside of my battalion. "I'll even give you some insurance to be sure I'll be back with her."

"What's that?" Harvelle squints.

"My Jobox," I say. "Was able to rescue it from the fire. It's in Winchester's trunk right now."

"Fine. You can store it in the garage," Harvelle says, pushing the bike out of the garage. "Speaking of Winchester...what'd you think of him?"

I shove my hands in my pockets and say, "He was...pretty much everything you warned me he'd be."

"But he got the job done like I said he would, didn't he?" Harvelle says with a laugh and self-satisfied smirk. I can tell he enjoys being dispatcher at the hub for hunters, teaming them up where he sees fit.

"Sure did," I say, lighting up a cigarette. "He got it more than done. His methods are unorthodox, but effective. He's a good guy," I puff out a bunch of smoke and say, "But when you gave me his 20/20 life story, you never mentioned he was a Daddy."

"No. I leave that to him if he wants to share," says Harvelle. "John's real guarded about those boys of his; they're all he's got left. Most hunters he partners up with never even know about Sam and Dean. Keeps 'em pretty sheltered from this life. As much as he can, at least. Dean knows some, but not everything. I don't know how much longer that can last, though. The fact John even let you know about his boys means you must've really got on his good side. Ain't many people he trusts, but you must be one of them."

"Don't know about that," I say. "I found out about the kids by accident. A Lamia spilled the beans when she threatened to kill 'em."

"I see..." says Bill slowly. "And that's when John tore her apart?"

"To shreds," I confirm.

Harvelle smiles at that. "I'm not surprised. Only someone with a death wish threatens John Winchester's kids to his face."

Just then, Ellen opens up the upstairs window overlooking the yard, pokes her head out and calls, "Breakfast!" when we don't move right away, she says, "Get your sorry behinds up here!"

"Yes, dear!" Bill responds. He turns to me. "You hungry?"

"I should be hitting the road," I say, thinking of heading back home to Houston, to see my old man and check out a few used car lots.

Harvelle claps his hand on my shoulder. "Come on now, Logan. You know Ellen won't take no for an answer. Besides, she made flapjacks."

And there's the hook. Bill knows, it too.

"Well, I guess I can stay awhile longer," I shrug, like it's some big sacrifice.

"Good man," Bill smiles, leading the way back into the Roadhouse.

…

As we go up the stairs, the smell of flapjacks on the grill, warm maple syrup, hash browns and bacon all make my mouth water, make me realize just how hungry I am. Ellen's standing over the stove, her back to me as she takes a spatula and flips over all the flapjacks. Winchester is sitting at the breakfast table with his brood. He's got Sammy on his lap, feeding him little bites of pancake. It's no surprise to me that he doesn't appear to be eating much himself, breakfast hater that he is. Dean's next to him, chowing down. He grabs Mrs. Butterworth, drowns his whole plate in syrup and keeps going.

"That's enough syrup, Dean," Winchester spots him and wrestles away the bottle.

"Take a seat, boys," says Ellen, turning around with two huge breakfast platters for me and her husband.

"You look great, El," I say, noticing her baby bump, much more prominent than the last time I saw her. At least with Ellen, I can see what people mean when they say a pregnant lady's glowing.

"I'm big as a house," Ellen brushes off my compliment. Bill comes around behind his wife, wrapping his arms around her. "You look beautiful."

"Go eat your breakfast," she turns and swats him off, feisty as ever, permitting a kiss from her husband before he goes to sit down at the head of the breakfast table.

"Thought of a baby name yet?" I ask the Harvelle's as I sit down across from Winchester and the kids and Ellen sits next to her husband.

"Joseph or Joanna," Ellen says, hand on her rounded stomach. "Either way, it'll be a Jo(e)."

"I think it's a girl," says Bill, reaching out to squeeze Ellen's hand.

"I think so, too," she smiles.

I like the Harvelles a lot. Bill and Ellen pretty much run a bed and breakfast for hunters to recover after a case, and though it's Bill's kingdom on paper, Ellen reigns. She looks out for all us sorry, bull-headed hunters. She forces us to eat, tends to our injuries, makes sure we're bathed, well-rested and sober before turning us back out onto the road. At the same time, El's a no-nonsense kinda gal, and looks after us in a gruff sorta way that reminds us she's not our mother and she's not our wife. We all respect and admire Ellen, and none of dares the humiliation of ever challenging her to an arm wrestling match after what happened to Jed.

"Eat," I hear Ellen say, cuffing Winchester on the back of the head as she walks by. Winchester's smart enough to know not to cross Ellen, knowing she's not past force-feeding. He saves himself the humiliation and obliges in taking a bite of hash browns, alternating feeding himself and the hungry tot on his lap. Once he gets going, I realize Winchester can really put it away. With how he always seems to be on the move, he probably eats enough in one sitting for the whole day and calls it good.

I finish every bite on my plate and get seconds, too before saying, "Thanks for breakfast, El. You're still the best cook I know. And can I get those keys, Bill? I thinking of taking off now."

"Oh, no you don't," says Ellen, pointing her fork at me and Winchester in turn. "Neither of you are going anywhere until you've had three square meals and at least eight hours of uninterrupted sleep."

"I don't think that's gonna happen, El," says Winchester, who currently has Dean tugging on one of his arms, begging him to go play outside with him, and Sammy standing up on his lap, playfully slapping his hands on either side of Winchester's face and making his Daddy do fish lips.

"I've gotta go," I try again, getting to my feet, knowing I've gotta stand firm to get past Ellen. "You're full up here. I'm planning on heading down South to see my old man."

Ellen stands up, back arched from the burden she has up front, and scrutinizes me with narrowed eyes, hands on what was once her waist. "Fine," she says pointing her finger at me. "But I want you to check in at the bed and breakfast up the road and get yourself some shut eye first."

"I will," I promise, admitting that a warm bed sounds pretty appealing.

"You'd better. I know the owners," Ellen threatens me. "And if I find out you never checked in, I will hunt you down, Jeremiah Logan. Even with this baby riding up in my ribs. You understand?"

Dean's laughing at seeing a grown man threatened. I see Winchester smirk, putting his arm around his son's shoulders and lightly telling him to hush.

"Yes, Ma'am," I murmur, like a dog with a tail between its legs.

Ellen nods her satisfaction and Bill hands me the keys to his bike. "Wear a helmet," Ellen reminds me. "Yes, Ma'am," I say again.

I stop and turn in the doorway, remembering my stuff's still in Winchester's trunk. "Hey Winchester, think I can get that Jobox?"

"Yeah," says Winchester, getting to his feet and setting Sammy on the floor. "Go play, boys," he tells them, ruffling their hair in turn and sending them off to the corner of the room with plastic action figures and stuffed animals strewn about.

"Need any help?" Bill offers.

"No thanks, Bill. We've got it," I say, shaking Bill's hand and hugging Ellen. I go out to the yard with Winchester. He unlocks his trunk and we lift my Jobox up and out, carrying it into the garage. I dig through it for my favorite and most useful weapons: rock salt, iron, pistol, holy water, silver dagger, my hunting journal—all the essentials in case I run into any trouble for the road. I'll be back for the rest later.

Knowing Ellen's probably watching me through the window, I find a motorcycle helmet in the garage, tuck it under my arm and turn to Winchester. "It was good working with you, Winchester," I say, sticking out my hand. "You're not such a bad hunter, either—for a rookie."

"Thanks," says Winchester, shaking my hand, not liking the label any more than when I first met him, but not taking any real offense this time.

"You're a lucky man, you know," I say. "You've got a lot more to live for than most of us. And don't forget it."

Winchester stares hard at me, looks down at his shoes and nods once. "Yeah, I know."

I straddle the bike, put my helmet on and say, "If I ever need someone to make me feel my age on a case again, I'll give you a call."

"Sounds good," Winchester chuckles. "You really going to see your old man?"

"Yep," I say. "Your little reunion back there reminded me that there's nothing more important than family."

Winchester inclines his head. "You're right about that."

"You take care of yourself, Winchester," I say. "And those boys."

I lift up the kick stand with my boot and start up the engine, nodding at Winchester before taking off up the muddy driveway and onto the open road, wondering when and if I'll ever see that crazy son of a bitch again.

...

THE END


End file.
